YESTERDAYS  WITH  AUTHORS. 
soth  F.d-i  do.,  $2.00. 

UNDERBRUSH. 

3d  Ed.,  do.,%t.2$. 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

Clo.,  $1.00. 
THE  FAMILY  LIBRARY  OF  BRITISH 

POETRY. 
Edited  by  Tames  T.  Fields  and 

Edv 

3d  Ed.,  do. 
full  mor 


YESTKRD. 
soth  : 

Ui 

3d  I 
BALLADS  . 

THE  TAMIL 

Edited  b 
EC 


full  mo, 


BALLADS 


AND    OTHER  VEESES 


BY 

JAMES  T.  FIELDS 


Mustered  from  half-forgotten  silent  nooks- 
The  dusky  purlieus  of  departed  books." 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
iOc  $3  res'*, 

1881 


Copyright,  1880, 
BY  J.  T.  FIELDS 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0  Houghton  &  Co 


CONTENTS. 


PAQB 

THE  OWL-CRITIC 7 

'S  QUIET  LUNCH  WITH  CICERO      .        .        .  12 

?HE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE 16 

ATI  EXT  MERCY  JONES 20 

BALLAD  OF  THE  WICKED  NEPHEW        .        .        .        .27 

Tin;  MUSICAL  BOY 31 

<OT  SKINNER'S  ELEGY 33 

UPITER  AND  TEN 36 

THE  ALARMED  SKIPPER 39 

?HE  TURTLE  AND  FLAMINGO 42 

A.  NEW  AND  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 45 

ISABEL,  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE 52 

DON 54 

THE  SEARCH         .                59 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "KAB  AND  HIS 

FRIENDS" 60 


'21 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST 63 

YOUTH'S  SONG         .        . 65 

WITH  WORDSWORTH  AT  RYDAL         ....        66 
ON  RECEIVING  A  LOCK  OF  KEATS'S  HAIR  .        .        .68 
ON  A  BOOK  OF  SEA-MOSSES               J1      .        .        .        69 
AFTER    HEARING   MRS.   KEMBLE  READ    "THE    TEM 
PEST"     . 71 

ON  A  VILLAGE  CHURCH  IN  ENGLAND  ...  73 
ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  CROMWELL  ,-'.,..  .  .74 
THE  KING  AND  THE  POET  ......  76 

AN  INVITATION 78 

FOR  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  FRANKLIN'S   STATUE   IN 

HIS  NATIVE  CITY 79 

PERDITA    .......       .        «        .        .81 

"THE  STORMY  PETREL"    .        .        .     .  .     ...        .        82 

MOONRISE  AT  SEA  ...        .        .        ...        .85 

SPRING,  AMONG  THE  HILLS 86 

THE  MEMORY  OF  MOORE 88 

MIDNIGHT  SONG  BY  THE  SHORE        .        ...        .        90 

ON  A  PAIR  OF  ANTLERS 91 

LAST  WORDS  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND   .        .        .        .        93 

THE  SONG-QUEEN 94 

THE  ALPINE  CROSS 95 


CONTENTS.  v 

PAGE 

CANZONET .        .        .97 

A  POOR  MAN'S  EPITAPH 98 

THE  LOVER'S  PERIL 100 

VESPERS 101 

FIRESIDE  EVENING  HYMN 103 

HONORIA 104 

IlELTCS 106 

A  SOLDIER'S  ANCESTRY 107 

AGASSI/ 108 

COMMON  SENSE Ill 

COURTESY 113 

To  T.  S.  K 114 

DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL 115 

PINKS 116 

A  SUMMER  UETREAT 117 

A  BRIDAL  MELODY 119 

PRESENCE 120 

MONMODTH 121 

A  PROTEST 123 

EVENTIDE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 124 

A  CHARACTER 125 

THE  \VniTK-TiiROATED  SPARROW      ....      126 
A  VALENTINE  .  .  128 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

IK  SPRING-TIME 129 

SUMMER  EVENING  MELODY    .        .        .        .        .        .130 

IN  THE  FOREST .        .      131 

THE  PERPETUITY  OF  SONG 132 

THE  FLAME-BEARER    ...        .        .        .        .       134 

IN  EXTREMIS    . 135 

MORNING  AND  EVENING  HY  THE  SEA        .        .        .136 
THE  OLD  YEAR  .  137 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  VERSES. 


THE   OWL-CRITIC. 

A   LESSON    TO    FAULT-FINDERS. 

"  WHO  stuffed  that  white  owl  ?  "  No  one  spoke  in 
the  shop: 

The  barber  was  busy,  and  he  could  n't  stop ; 

The  customers,  waiting  their  turns,  were  all  read 
ing 

The  "Daily,"  the  "Herald,"  the  "Post,"  little 
heeding 

The  young  man  who  blurted  out  such  a  blunt 
question  ; 

Not  one  raised  a  head,  or  even  made  a  suggestion  ; 
And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Mister  Brown," 
Cried  the  youth,  with  a  frown, 


(:8( /:  :, '.::'\' ; : :  THE,  o WL-CRITIC. 

"How  wrong  the  whole  thing  is, 

How  preposterous  each  wing  is, 

How  flattened  the  head  is,  how  jammed  down  the 
neck  is  — 

In   short,  the  whole  owl,  what   an  ignorant  wreck 
'tis! 

I  make  no  apology; 

I  've  learned  owl-eology. 

I  Ve  passed  days  and  nights  in  a  hundred   collec 
tions, 

And  cannot  be  blinded  to  any  deflections 

Arising  from  unskilful  fingers  that  fail 

To  stuff  a  bird  right,  from  his  beak  to  his  tail. 

Mister  Brown  !    Mister  Brown  ! 

Do  take  that  bird  down, 

Or    you  '11    soon    be    the    laughing-stock    all    over 
town ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

''I've  studied  owls, 
And  other  night  fowls, 
And  I  tell  you 
What  I  know  to  be  true : 
An  owl  cannot  roost 


THE  OWL-CRITIC.  9 

With  his  limbs  so  unloosed; 
No  owl  in  this  world 
Ever  had  his  claws  curled, 
Ever  had  his  legs  slanted, 
Ever  had  his  bill  canted, 
Ever  had  his  neck  screwed 
Into  that  attitude. 
He  can't  do  it,  because 
'T  is  against  all  bird-laws. 
Anatomy  teaches, 
Ornithology  preaches 
An  owl  has  a  toe 
That  can't  turn  out  so  ! 

I  've  made  the  white  owl  my  study  for  years, 
And  to  see  such  a  job  almost  moves  me  to  tears ! 
Mister  Brown,  I  'm  amazed 
You  should  be  so  gone  crazed 
As  to  put  up  a  bird 
In  that  posture  absurd ! 

To  look  at  that  owl  really  brings  on  a  dizziness; 
The    man    who    stuffed    him   don't    half   know  his 
business ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


10  THE  OWL-CRITIC. 

"  Examine  those  eyes. 

I  'm  filled  with  surprise 

Taxidermists  should  pass 

Off  on  you  such  poor  glass ; 

So  unnatural  they  seem 

They  'd  make  Audubon  scream, 

And  John  Burroughs  laugh 

To  encounter   such  chaff. 

Do  take  that  bird  down  ; 

Have  him  stuffed  again,  Brown ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

"  With  some  sawdust  and  bark 

I  could  stuff  in  the  dark 

An  owl  better  than  that. 

I  dould  make  an  old  hat 

Look  more  like  an  owl 

Than  that  horrid  fowl, 

Stuck  up  there  so  stiff  like  a  side  of  coarse  leather. 

In  fact,  about  him  there  's  not  one  natural  feather." 

Just  then,  with  a  wink  and  a  sly  normal  lurch, 
The  owl,  very  gravely,  got  down  from  his  perch, 
Walked  round,  and  regarded  his  fault-finding  critic 


THE   OWL-CRITIC.  11 

(Who  thought   he  was   stuffed)  with  a  glance  ana 
lytic, 

And  then  fairly  hooted,  as  if  he  should  say :• 

"  Your  learning  's  at  fault  this  time,  any  way ; 

Don't  waste  it  again  on  a  live  bird,  I  pray. 

I  'm    an    owl ;   you  're    another.     Sir    Critic,  good- 
day  ! " 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


CAESAR'S    QUIET   LUNCH   WITH   CICERO. 

HAVE  you  read  how  Julius  Cassar 

Made  a  call  on  Cicero 
In  his  modest  Formian  Villa, 

Many  and  many  a  year  ago? 

"I  shall  pass  your  way,"  wrote  Cassar, 

"  On  the  Saturnalia,  Third, 
And  I  '11  just  drop  in,  my  Tullius, 
For  a  quiet  friendly  word ; 

"  Don't  make  a  stranger  of  me,  Marc,    - 

Nor  be  at  all  put  out, 
A  snack  of  anything  you  have 
Will  serve  my  need,  no  doubt. 

"  I  wish  to  show  my  confidence  — 

The  invitation  's  mine  — 
I  come  to  share  your  simple  food, 
And  taste  your  honest  wine." 


CAESAR'S  QUIET  LUNCH  WITH  CICERO.     13 

Up  rose  M.  Tullius  Cicero, 

And  seized  a  Roman  punch,  — 

Then  mused  upon  the  god-like  soul 
Was  coming  round  to  lunch. 

"  By  Hercules  !  "  he  murmured  low 

Unto  his  lordly  self, 
"  There  are  not  many  dainties  left 

Upon  my  pantry  shelf ! 

"But  what  I  have  shall  Julius  share. 

"SVhat  ho  ! "  he  proudly  cried, 
"  Great  Cresar  comes  this  way  anon 

To  sit  my  chair  beside. 

"  A  dish  of  lampreys  quickly  stew, 

And  cook  them  to  a  turn, 
For  that's  his  favorite  pabulum 
From  Mamurra  I  learn." 

His  slaves  obey  thoir  lord's  command; 

The  table  soon  is  laid 
For  two  distinguished  gentlemen, — 

One  rather  bald,  't  is  said. 


14     CESAR'S  QUIET  LUNCH  WITH  CICERO. 

When  lo !  a  messenger  appears 

To  sound  approach  —  and  then, 
"  Brave  Caesar  comes  to  greet  his  friend 
With  twice  a  thousand  men! 

"  His  cohorts  rend  the  air  with  shouts ; 

That  is  their  dust  you  see ; 
The  trumpeters  announce  him  near!" 
Said  Marcus,  "Woe  is  me! 

"  Fly,  Cassius,  fly !   assign  a  guard  ! 

Borrow  what  tents  you  can ! 
Encamp  his  soldiers  round  the  field, 
Or  I'm  a  ruined  man! 

"  Get  sheep  and  oxen  by  the  score ! 

Buy  corn  at  any  price ! 
O  Jupiter !   befriend  me  now, 
And  give  me  your  advice  ! " 

It  turned  out  better  than  he  feared,  — 
Things  proved  enough  and  good, — 

And  Caesar  made  himself  at  home, 
And  much  enjoyed  his  food. 


CESAR'S  QUIET  LUNCH  WITH  CICERO.     15 

But  Marcus  had  an  awful  fright,  — 

That  cannot  be  denied  ; 
"  I  'm  glad  't  is  over !  "  —  when  it  was  — 
The  host  sat  down  and  sighed, 

And  when  he  wrote  to  Atticus, 

And  all  the  story  told, 
He  ended  his  epistle  thus : 

"  J.  C.  's  a  warrior  bold, 

"A  vastly  entertaining  man, 

In  Learning  quite  immense, 
So  full  of  literary  skill, 

And  most  uncommon  sense, 

"  But,  frankly,  I  should  never  say 

1  No  trouble,  sir,  at  all ; 
And  when  you  pass  this  way  again, 
Give  us  another  call  I '  " 


THE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE. 

A  FARMER  travelling  with  his  load 
Picked  up  a  horseshoe  on  the  road, 
And  nailed  it  fast  to  his  barn  door, 
That  luck  might  down  upon  him  pour, 
That  every  blessing  known  in  life 
Might  crown  his  homestead  and  his  wife, 
And  never  any  kind  of  harm 
Descend  upon  his  growing  farm. 

But  dire  ill-fortune  soon  began 
To  visit  the  astounded  man. 
His  hens  declined  to  lay  their  eggs ; 
His  bacon  tumbled  from  the  pegs, 
And  rats  devoured  the  fallen  legs; 
His  corn,  that  never  failed  before, 
Mildewed  and  rotted  on  the  floor ; 
His  grass  refused  to  end  in  hay; 
His  cattle  died,  or  went  astray : 
In  short,  all  moved  the  crooked  way. 


THE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE.  17 

Next  Spring  a  great  drought  baked  the  sod 

And  roasted  every  pea  in  pod; 

The  beans  declared  they  could  not  grow 

So  long  as  nature  acted  so  ; 

Redundant  insects  reared  their  brood 

To  starve  for  lack  of  juicy  food; 

The  staves  from  barrel  sides  went  off 

As  if  they  had  the   hooping-cough, 

And  nothing  of  the  useful  kind 

To  hold  together  felt  inclined: 

In  short,  it  was  no  use  to  try 

While  all  the  land  was  in  a  fry. 

One  morn,  demoralized  with  grief, 
The  farmer  clamored  for  relief; 
And  prayed  right  hard  to  understand 
What  witchcraft  now  possessed  his  land  ; 
Why  house  and  farm  in  misery  grew 
Since  he  nailed  up  that  "  lucky  "  shoe. 

While  thus  dismayed  o'er  matters  wrong, 
An  old  man  chanced  to  trudge  along, 
To  whom  he  told,  with  wormwood  tears, 
How  his  affairs  were  in  arrears, 
2 


18  THE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE. 

And  what  a  desperate  state  of  things 
A  picked-up  horseshoe  sometimes  brings. 

The  stranger  asked  to  see  the  shoe ; 
The  farmer  brought  it  into  view ; 
But  when  the  old  man  raised  his  head, 
He  laughed  outright,  and  quickly  said, 
"  No  wonder  skies  upon  you  frown ; 
You  've  nailed  the  horseshoe  upside  down ! 
Just  turn  it  round,   and  soon  you'll  see 
How  you  and  Fortune  will  agree." 

The  farmer  turned  the  horseshoe  round, 
And  showers  began  to  swell  the  ground ; 
The  sunshine  laughed  among  his  grain, 
And  heaps  on  heaps  piled  up  the  wain; 
The  loft  his  hay  could  barely  hold; 
His  cattle  did  as  they  were  told; 
His  fruit  trees  needed  sturdy  props 
To  hold  the  gathering  apple  crops ; 
His  turnip  and  potato  fields 
Astonished  all  men  by  their  yields  ; 
Folks  never  saw  such  ears  of  corn 
As  in  his  smiling  hills  were  born ; 


THE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE.  19 

His  barn  was  full  of  bursting  bins  — 

o 

His  wife  presented  him  with  twins  ; 
His  neighbors  marvelled  more  and  more 
To  see  the  increase  in  his  store ; 
And  now  the  merry  farmer  sings, 
"  There  are  two  ways  of  doing  things ; 
And  when  for  good  luck  you  would  pray, 
Nail  up  your  horseshoe  the  right  way." 


PATIENT  MERCY  JONES. 

Let  us  venerate  the  bones 

Of  patient  Mercy  Jones, 

Who  lies  underneath  these  stones. 

THIS  is  her  story  as  once  told  to  me 

By   him   who    still    loved   her,   as    all   men    might 

see,  — 

Darius,  her  husband,  his  age  seventy  years, 
A  man  of  few  words,  but,  for  her,  many  tears. 

Darius  and  Mercy  were  born  in  Vermont ; 
Both  children  were  christened  at  baptismal  font 
In  the  very  same  place,  on  the  very  same  day  — 
(Not  much  acquainted  just  then,  I  dare  say). 
The  minister  sprinkled  the  babies,  and  said, 
"Who  knows  but   this   couple   some   time  may  be 

wed, 

And  I  be  the  parson  to  join  them  together, 
For  weal  or  for  woe,  through  all  sorts  of  weather ! " 


PATIENT  MERCY  JONES.  21 

Well,  they  were  married,  and  happier  folk 

Never  put   both   their   heads    in    the    same    loving 

yoke. 
They    were   poor,  they  worked   hard,   but    nothing 

could  try 

The  patience  of  Mercy,  or  cloud  her  bright  eye. 
She  was  clothed  with  Content  as  a  beautiful  robe; 
She  had  griefs,  —  who  has  not  on  this   changeable 

globe  ?  — 
But  at  such   times   she   seemed   like    the    sister  of 

Job. 

She  was    patient  with    dogmas  where    light    never 

dawns, 
She    was    patient    with    people    who    trod    on   her 

lawns  ; 
She    was    patient  with   folks  who    said    blue    skies 

were  gray, 

And  dentists  and  oxen  that  pulled  the  wrong  way  ; 
She  was  patient  with  phrases    no    husband    should 

utter, 
She  was    patient  with    cream    that    declined   to  be 

butter ; 
She  was  patient  with  buyers  with   nothing  to  pay, 


22  PATIENT  MERCY  JONES. 

She  was  patient  with  talkers  with  nothing  to  say  ; 
She  was    patient  with  millers    whose  trade  was  to 

cozen, 

And  grocers  who  counted  out  ten  to  the  dozen  ; 
She    was    patient    with    bunglers    and    fault-finding 

churls, 
And    tall,    awkward   lads  who    came    courting   Jier 

girls  ; 

She  was  patient  with  crockery  no  art  could  mend, 
And  chimneys  that   smoked   every    day  the  wrong 

end; 
She    was    patient   with   reapers    who    never  would 

sow, 

And  long-winded  callers  who  never  would  go; 
She  was  patient  with  relatives  when,  uninvited, 
They    came,    and  devoured,  then    complained    they 

were  slighted ; 

She  was  patient  with  crows  that  got  into  the  corn, 
And  other  dark  deeds  out  of  wantonness  born  ; 
She    was    patient   with   lightning    that    burned    up 

the  hay, 

She  was  patient  with  poultry  unwilling  to  lay; 
She  was  patient  with  rogues  who    drank  cider  too 

strong, 


PATIENT  MERCY  JONES.  23 

She    vas    patient    with    sermons    that    lasted    too. 

long ; 
She  was    patient  with   boots    that    tracked   up  her 

dean  floors, 
She  was    patient  with    peddlers    and   other  smooth 

bores  ; 
She    was    patient    with    children     who    disobeyed 

rules, 
And,  to  crown  all   the    rest,  she  was    patient  with 

fools. 

The  neighboring  husbands  all  envied  the  lot 
Of  Darius,  and  wickedly  got  up  a  plot 
To  bring  o'er  his  sunshine  an  unpleasant  spot. 
"  You    think    your  wife's    temper   is  proof    against 

fate, 

But  we  know  of  something  her  smiles  will  abate. 
When  she  gets  out   of    wood,  and   for  more  is  in 
clined, 

Just  send  home  the   crookedest  lot  you  can  find; 
Let  us  pick  it  out,  let  us  go  and  choose  it, 
And  we  '11  bet  you  a  farm,  when  she  comes  for  to 

use  it, 

Her  temper  will  crack  like  Nathan  Dow's  cornet, 
And  she  '11  be  as  mad  as  an  elderly  hornet." 


24  PATIENT  MERCY  JONES. 

Darius  was  piqued,  and  he  said,  with  a  vum, 
"  I  '11  pay  for  the  wood,  if  you  'II  send  it  hnm  ; 
But  depend  on  it,  neighbors,  no  danger  will  come." 

Home  came    the    gnarled    roots,   and    a    crcokeder 

load 

Never  entered  the  gate  of  a  Christian  abode. 
A  ram's  horn  was   straighter  than  any  stick  in  it; 
It  seemed  to  be  wriggling  about  every  minute; 
It  would  not  stand  up, 'and  it  would  not  lie  down; 
It  twisted  the  vision  of  one  half  the  town  ; 
To  look  at  such  fuel  was  really  a  sin, 
For    the    chance  was  Strabismus  would    surely  set 

in. 

Darius  said  nothing  to  Mercy  about  it : 

It  was  crooked  wood  —  even  she  could  not  doubt 

it: 

But  never  a  harsh  word  escaped  her  sweet  lips, 
Any    more    than    if    the    old    snags    were    smooth 

chips. 
She   boiled    with   them,  baked  with    them,  washed 

with  them  through 
The  long  winter  months,  and  none  ever  knew 


PATIENT  MERCY  JONES.  25 

But  the  wood  was  as  straight  as  Mehitable  Drew, 
Who  was  straight  as  a  die,  or  a  gun,  or  an  arrow, 
And  who   made  it  her   business  all  male  hearts  to 
harrow. 

When    the  pile  was    burned    up,  and    they  needed 

more  wood, 
"  Sure,    now,"    mused    Darius,    "  I    shall  catch    it 

good ; 
She  has  kept  her   remarks    all   condensed   for   the 

Spring, 
And  my  ears,  for   the    trick,    now  deserve  well  to 

sing. 

She  never  did  scold  me,  but  now  she  will  pout, 
And  say  with  such  wood  she  is  nearly  worn  out." 

But  Mercy,  unruffled,  was  calm,  like  the  stream 
That    reflects    back    at    evening    the    sun's   perfect 

beam  ; 

And  she  looked   at  Darius,  and  lovingly  smiled, 
As  she  made  this  request  with  a  temper  unriled: 
"  We  are  wanting  more  fuel,  I  'm  sorry  to  say ; 
I  burn  a  great  deal  too  much  wood  every  day, 
And  I  mean  to  use  less  than  I  have  in  the  past, 


26  PATIENT  MERCY  JONES. 

But  get,  if  you  can,  dear,  a  load  like  the  last ; 
I  never  had  any  I  liked  half  so  well, — 
Do  see  who  has  nice  crooked  fuel  to  sell : 
There's  nothing   that's   better    than    wood   full   of 

knots, 

It  fays  so  complete  round  the  kettles  and  pots,  , 
And  washing  and  cooking  are  really  like  play 
When   the   sticks    nestle   close    in    so    charming    a 

way." 


BALLAD   OF  THE  WICKED  NEPHEW. 

IT  was  a  wicked  Nephew  bold 

Who  uprose  in  the  night, 
And  ground  upon  a  huge  grindstone 

His  penknife,  sharp  and  bright. 

And,  while  the  sparks  were  flying  wild 

The  cellar-floor  upon, 
Quoth  he  unto  himself,  "  I  will 

Dispatch  my  Uncle  John  ! 

"  His  property  is  large,  and  if 

He  dies,  and  leaves  a  Will, 
His  loving  Nephew  (that 's  myself) 
Won't  get  a  dollar-bill. 

"  I  '11  hie  nnto  my  Uncle's  bed, 
His  chamber  well  I  know, 
And  there  I'll  find  his  pocket-book 
Safe  under  his  pil-low. 


28      BALLAD   OF  THE    WICKED  NEPHEW. 

"With  this  bright  steel  I'll  slay  him  first, 

Because  that  is  the  way 
They  do  such  things,  I  understand, 
In  Boucicault's  new  Play." 

By  this  the  anxious  moon  retired, 

(For  all  the  stars  were  in), — 
"  'T  is  very  dark,"  the  Nephew  cried, 
"But  I  can  find  my  kin!" 

"  Come  forth,  my  trusty  weapon,  now ! " 

(Or  words  to  that  effect,) 
He  shouted  to  his  little  blade, 
Whose  power  he  did  suspect. 

Then  out  he  starts.     His  Uncle's  door 

Is  thirteen  doors  from  his  :  — 
He  gains  the  latch,  which  upward  flies, 
And  straight  inside  he  is  ! 

One  pause  upon  the  entry  stair, 

And  one  upon  the  mat,  — 
How  still  the  house  at  such  an  hour! 

How  mewless  lies  the  cat! 


BALLAD  OF  THE   WICKED  NEPHEW.      29 

"  O  Nephew  !  Nephew  !  be  not  rash  ; 
Turn  back,  and  then  '  turn  in : ' 
Your  Uncle  still  is  sound  asleep, 
And  you  devoid  of  sin ! 

"The  gallows-tree  was  never  built 

For  handsome  lads  like  you,  — 

Get  thee  to  bed!  (as  kind  Macbeth 

Wished  his  young  man  to  do)." 

He  will  not  be  advised,  —  he  stands 

Beside  the  sleeping  form,  — 
The  hail  begins  to  beat  outside 

A  tattoo  for  the  storm. 

u'Tis  not  too  late,  —  repent,  repent! 

And  all  may  yet  be  well ! " 
"  Repent  yourself ! "  the  Nephew  sneers,  — 
And  at  it  goes  pell-mell ! 

To  right  and  left  he  carves  his  way,  — 

At  least  thus  did  it  seem ; 
And,  after  he  had  done  the  deed,  — 

Woke  up  from  his  bad  dream, 


30      BALLAD   OF  THE   WICKED  NEPHEW. 

And  swift  to  Uncle  John  he  ran, 
When  daylight  climbed  the  hill, 

And  told  him  all,  —  and  Uncle  John 
Put  Nephew  in  his  Will. 


THE  MUSICAL  BOY. 

IT  is  a  ruthless,  toothless  wight 
Who  dwells  beside  a  wall, 

And  spends  his  time  in  singing  songs 
As  loud  as  he  can  bawl, 

And  casting  stones  at  passengers 
Who  may  neglect  to  call. 

The  knave  deals  out  inflated  corn 

And  other  fluffy  things, 
Gum-balls  and  miscellaneous  pies, 

And  doughnuts  shaped  like  rings  ; 
The  pea-nut  branch  he  also  plies, 

As  all  day  long  he  sings. 

'*  0  urchin  rude,  of  manners  crude, 

Of  un angelic  voice, 
Pray  tell  me  true,  young  ruffian,  do, 
If  thus  you  live  from  choice, 


32  THE  MUSICAL  BOY. 

Or  if  in  your  unhallowed  ways 
You  really  don't  rejoice  ! 

"Your  wares  are  insalubrious, 
Your  carols  are  the  same, 

Your  bold  career  is  fraught  with  fear, 
Your  traffic  one  of  shanie, — • 

A  dark,  mysterious,  dreadful  trade, 
A  deed  without  a  name. 

"Boy,  cease  your  harmful,  dreary  notes, 
And  fling  your  goods  away ; 

Go  get  you  to  New  Zealand,  or 
Some  cove  in  Baffin's  Bay : 

Expenses  out  (but  no  return) 
Myself  will  gladly  pay." 

The  rogue  looks  up  with  knowing  leer, 

And  bids  me  not  repine, 
Then  aims  a  missile  at  my  head 

With  phrase  that 's  not  divine, 
And  croaks  a  still  more  dismal  song, — 

The  words,  alas !  are  mine ! 


LOT   SKINNER'S  ELEGY 

LOT  SKINNER  was  the  meanest  man 

That  ever  saved  his  neck; 
He  grudged  the  very  breath  he  drew, 

As  if  it  were  a  check. 

When  he  was  in  the  grocer  line, 

And  turning  fruit  to  gold, 
He  'd  bite  a  raisin  straight  in  halves 

To  make  the  weight  he  sold. 

Day  in  and  out,  through  heat  and  cold, 

For  thirty  years  or  more, 
He  well  observed  the  copper-mean, 

And  —  something  blessed  his  store. 

lie  never  gave  a  dime  away, 

He  never  lost  a  pin ; 
A  ninepence  saved  rejoiced  him  more 

Than  taking  ninepence  in. 
3 


34  LOT  SKINNERS  ELEGY. 

Of  counterfeited  bills  he  used 

The  best  of  every  kind, 
Which  in  the  way  of  trade  he  kept, 

To  swap  off  on  the  blind. 

The  poor  came  round  his  counter's  edge, 

And  raised  a  feeble  cry: 
"Don't  speak  so  loud,"  the  rogue  exclaimed, 
"For  I  am  always  nigh." 

"Tis  little  things  that  make  a  pile,"  — 

(This  maxim  he  could  trust.) 
So,  when  he  sawed  his  pile  of  wood, 
He  always  saved  the  dust. 

He  had  but  one  book  in  the  house, 

And  that  he  never  read ! 
'T  was  called  "  Economy  of  Life,"  — 

And  did  him  good,  he  said. 

He  welcomed  in  the  rising  moon, — 
'T  was  such  a  cheerful  sight ; 

For  then  he  'd  blow  the  candle  out, 
And  use  the  gratis  light. 


LOT  SKINNERS  ELEGY.  35 

He  liked  in  other  people's  pews 

To  settle  meekly  down, 
And  steal  his  preaching,  here  and  there, 

By  sneaking  round  the  town. 

Sometimes  we  saw  a  greenish  smile 

Coil  up  his  bony  face: 
'Twas  when  the  parson  chose  a  theme 

That  spoke  of  saving  grace. 

At  last  it  cost  so  much  to  live, — 

(Per  day  some  twenty  cents,) 
"  I  won't  stand  this !  "  he  inly  groaned, 
And  died  to  save  expense. 

Now,  having  gone  where  all  his  means 

Are  shut  up  in  a  box, 
He  cannot  lift  that  heavy  lid 

The  careful  sexton  locks. 

Adieu!  thou  scrap  of  lifeless  clay! 

Thou  pale-ink  human  blot! 
This  line  shall  be  thine  epitaph, — 

"An  unproductive  Lot!" 


JUPITER  AND  TEN. 

MRS.  CHUB  was  rich  and  portly, 
Mrs.  Chub  was  very  grand, 

Mrs.  Chub  was  always  reckoned 
A  lady  in  the  land. 

You  shall  see  her  marble  mansion 
In  a  very  stately  square,  — 

Mr.  C.  knows  what  it  cost  him, 
But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Mrs.  Chub  was  so  sagacious, 
Such  a  patron  of  the  arts, 

And  she  gave  such  foreign  orders, 
That  she  won  all  foreign  hearts. 


o 


Mrs.  Chub  was  always  talking, 
When  she  went  away  from  home, 

Of  a  most  prodigious  painting 

Which  had  just  arrived  from  Rome. 


J-UPITER  AND  TEN.  37 

"  Such  a  treasure,"  she  insisted, 
"  One  might  never  see  again ! " 

"  What 's  the  subject  ?  "  we  inquired. 
11  It  is  Jupiter  and  Ten!" 

"Ten  what?"  we  blandly  asked  her, 
For  the  knowledge  we  did  lack. 

"Ah!  that  I  cannot  tell  you, 

But  the  name  is  on  the  back. 

"There  it  stands  in  printed  letters. 

Come  to-morrow,  gentlemen, 
Come  and  see  our  splendid  painting, 
Our  fine  Jupiter  and  Ten. " 

When  Mrs.  Chub  departed, 
Our  brains  we  all  did  rack,  — 

She  could  not  be  mistaken, 

For  the  name  was  on  the  back. 

So  we  begged  a  great  Professor 

To  lay  aside  his  pen, 
And  give  some  information 

Touching  "  Jupiter  and  Ten." 


38  JUPITER  AND  TEN. 

And  we  pondered  well  the  subject, 
And  our  Lempriere  we  turned, 

To  discover  what  the  Ten  were; 

But  we  could  not,  though  we  burned! 

But  when  we  saw  the  picture, — 
Oh,  Mrs.  Chub !     Oh,  fie !     Oh  ! 

We  perused  the  printed  label, 
And  'twas  Jupiter  and  lo! 


THE  ALARMED   SKIPPER. 

"It  was  an  Ancient  Mariner." 

MANY  a  long,  long  year  ago, 
Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 
Of  finding  out,  though  "  lying  low," 
How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 

They  greased  the  lead  before  it  fell, 
And  then,  by  sounding  through  the  night,* 
Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck,  so  well, 
They  always  guessed  their  reckoning  right. 

A  skipper  gray,  whose  eyes  were  dim, 
Could  tell,  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 
And  so  below  he  'd  "  dowse  the  glim,"  — 
After,  of  course,  his  "  some  thing  hot." 

Snug  in  Jiis  berth,  at  eight  o'clock, 
This  ancient  skipper  might  be  found  ; 
No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rock, 
He  slept,  —  for  skippers'  naps  are  sound! 


40  THE  ALARMED  SKIPPER. 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and   then 
Run  down  and  wake  him,  with  the  lead ; 
He'd  up,  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night,  't  was  Jotham  Marden's  watch, 
A  curious  wag,  —  the  peddler's  son,  — 
And  so  he  mused  (the  wanton  wretch), 
"To-night  I'll  have  a  grain  of  fun. 

"  We  're  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools 
To  think  the  skipper  knows  by  tasting 
What  ground  he  's  on,  —  Nantucket  schools 
Don't  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  their  basting ! ' 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead 
And  rubbed  it  o'er  a  box  of  earth 
That  stood  on  deck,  —  a  parsnip-bed,  — 
And  then  he  sought  the  skipper's  berth. 

"  Where  are  we  now,  sir  ?     Please  to  taste." 
The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue, 
Then  oped  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste, 
And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung! 


THE  ALARMED  SKIPPER.  41 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair, 
Thrust  on  his  boots,  and  roared  to  Harden, 
"Nantucket's  sunk,  and  here  we  are 
Eight  over  old  Mann  HacketCs  garden  I  " 


THE   TURTLE   AND  FLAMINGO. 

A    SONG   FOR   MY  LITTLE   FRIENDS. 

A  LIVELY  young  turtle  lived  down  by  the  banks 

Of  a  dark-rolling  stream  called  the  Jingo, 
And  one  summer  day,  as  he  went  out  to  play, 
Fell  in  love  with  a  charming  flamingo,  — 

An  enormously  genteel  flamingo ! 

An  expansively  crimson  flamingo! 

A  beautiful,  bouncing  flamingo ! 

Spake  the  turtle  in  tones  like  a  delicate  wheeze: 

"  To  the  water  I  Ve  oft  seen  you  in  go, 
And  your   form   has    impressed  itself   deep   on  my 

shell, 

You  perfectly  modelled  flamingo  ! 
You  uncommonly  brilliant  flamingo! 
You  tremendously  scorching  flamingo ! 
You  inexpres-si-ble  flamingo ! 


THE    TURTLE  AND  FLAMINGO.  43 

"  To  be  sure,  I  'm  a  turtle  and  you  are  a  belle, 

And  my  language  is  not  your  fine  lingo  ; 
But  smile  on  me,  tall  one,  and  be  my  bright  flame, 
You  miraculous,  wondrous  flamingo  ! 
You  blazingly  beauteous  flamingo ! 
You  turtle-absorbing  flamingo  ! 
You  inflammably  gorgeous  flamingo ! " 

Then  the  proud  bird  blushed  redder  than  ever  before, 

And  that  was  quite  un-nec-ces-sa-ry, 
And  she  stood  on  one  leg  and  looked  out  of  one 

eye, 

The  position  of  things  for  to  vary,  — • 
This  aquatical,  musing  flamingo  ! 
This  dreamy,  uncertain  flamingo ! 
This  embarrassing,  harassing  flamingo ! 

Then  she  cried  to  the  quadruped,  greatly  amazed: 

"  Why  your  passion  toward  me  do  you  hurtle  ? 
I'm  an  ornithological  wonder  of  grace, 
And  you 're. an  illogical  turtle, — 
A  waddling,  impossible   turtle  ! 
A  low-minded,  grass-eating  turtle ! 
A  highly  improbable  turtle! 


44  THE   TURTLE  AND  FLAMINGO. 

"I  measure  four  feet  from  my  nose  to  my  toes  — 

Just  observe  the  flamboyant  spec-tacle ! 
Do  you  think  a  flamingo  like  me  would  stdtp  down 
Her  fortune  with  yours,  sir,  to  shackle? 
I  can't,  you  pre-joos-terous  turtle  ! 
You  aldermaniculous  turtle  ! 
You  damp  and  ridiculous  turtle ! " 

Then  the   turtle   sneaked  off  with  his  nose  to  the 

ground, 

And  never  more  looked  at  the  lasses ; 
And  falling  asleep,  while  indulging  his  grief, 
Was  gobbled  up  whole  by  Agassiz, — 
The  peripatetic  Agassiz! 
The  turtle-dissecting  Agassiz ! 
The  illustrious,  industrious  Agassiz 

Go  with  me  to  Cambridge  some  cool  pleasant  day, 

And  the  skeleton-lover  I  '11   show  you ; 
He 's  in  a  hard  case,  but  he  '11   look  in   your  face 
Pretending  (the  rogue !)  he  don't  know  you ! 
Oh,  the  deeply  deceptive  young   turtle ! 
The  double-faced,  glassy-cased  turtle ! 
The  green,  but  a  very  mock  turtle ! 


A  NEW  AND  TRUE  GHOST  STORY. 
(MANCHESTER  BY  THE  SEA.) 

COME,  my  Tavvie,  Jennie,  Florie, 
Paul  and  Maidie,  if  't  won't  bore  ye, 
Come  and  hear  my  new  ghost  story ! 
"  Certain  true  "  it  is,  and  therefore 
Something  that  perhaps  you  '11  care  for. 

On  the  rocks  we  '11  sit  together, 
In  this  blessed  summer  weather, 
Holding  hands,  the  moonlight  watching, 
With  no  fear  of  bad  cold  catching. 

Paul,  you  rogue,  if  you  don't  falter, 
You  shall  win  a  prime  "  Gibraltar," 
And  the  girls  shall  have  four  others. 
Just  as  if  they  were  our  brothers. 

Now  we're  seated,  all  is  ready, 
So  be  silent,  firm,  and  steady. 


46      A  NEW  AND  TRUE   GHOST  STORY. 

Never  mind,  it  is  no  matter, 
If  your  teeth  do  clash  and  clatter. 
They  are  wisdom  teeth  that  chatter 
When  a  true  ghost  story  rises, 
Filling  us  with  new  surprises. 

On  the  beach  that  lies  before  ye 
Is  the  scene  of  my  ghost  story, 
And  it  came  to  pass  in  Ju-ly, 
"  Sure  as  eggs  is  eggs  "  and  tru-lj. 

Well,  it  really  makes  me  shudder, 

When  I  think  in  what  a  pudder 

That  same  night  my  nerves  went  jumping, 

And  my  heart  kept  loudly  thumping. 

Deary  me !    let 's  all  sit  snugger 

In  a  general  kind  of  hugger, 

So  if  any  sprite  should  bump  us, 

We  '11  together  share  the  rumpus. 

I  'm  a  sleepless  kind  of  fellow, 
Moonlight  always  makes  me  mellow, 
And  I  like  to  walk  when  people 
Are  as  silent  as  yon  steeple 


A  NEW  AND  TRUE   GHOST  STORY.      47 

Where  the  bell-rope  has  been  rended 
Twenty  years,  and  can't  be  mended. 

So  last  month,  when  all  was  stilly,  — 
Midnight,  moonlight,  nothing  chilly, — 
From  our  hill-top  I  descended, 
And  by  "  Masconomo  "   wended. 
Overhead  the  stars  ceased  swinging, 
Underfoot  the  beach  stopped  singing, 
Not  a  mollusk  then  was  stirring, 
Not  a  fairy-puss  was  purring, 
Not  a  love-sick  periwinkle 
His  guitar  took  out  to   tinkle; 
All  the  Syrens  silver  dripping 
Into  amber  caves  were* slipping, 
Even  Neptune,  that  old  schemer 
Ventured  to  become  a  dreamer. 
Everything  and  everybody 
Passed  into  the  land  of  Noddy. 

I  began  to  feel  quite  creepy, 
Thinking  of  a  world  so  sleepy, 
Still  I  kept  on  walking,  walking, 
Sometimes  to  myself  low  talking, 


48      A  NEW  AND   TRUE   GHOST  STORY. 

Sometimes  sotto  voce  chanting 

Songs  like  Shelley's,  that  come  haunting 

All  our  fresh-awakened  senses 

With  their  lovely  moods  and  tenses. 

Tennyson  I  sang  and  shouted, 

Longfellow's  brave  words  I  spouted, 

Homer,  with  his  grand   emotion, 

How  I  thundered  to  the  ocean  ! 

All  the  bards  seemed  there  assembled, 

As  alone  I  walked  and  trembled. 

In  my  memories  and  forgetries, 
Never  night  had  such  et  cceteras  ; 
Never  did  the  moon  shine  brighter, 
Never  did  thfe  waves  dance  lighter. 
Warmth  and  coolth  were  gently  blended, 
Like  two   lovers,  Triton-tended ; 
Every  breeze  came  in  caressing, 
Freighted  with  an  amorous  blessing. 

Solitude  oped  every  portal. 
Never  was  a  lonelier   mortal ! 
Still  I  trudged  along  and  listened 
Now  and  then,  as  round  me  glistened 


A  NEW  AND  TRUE   GHOST  STORY       49 

Sand  and  rock,  but  not  a  whisper 
Came  from  any  human  lisper. 

What  is  that  so  ivhite  and  tiny. 
Moving  slowly  toward  the  briny 
World  before  me,  —  onward  gliding, 
Pausing,  resting,  tripping,  sliding? 
Heavens!  what  is  that  baby  vision, 
Wandering  there  from  haunts  Elysian, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer, 
Growing  clearer,  clearer,  clearer? 

Soon  my  hair  began  to  bristle, 
And  I  tried  in  vain  to  whistle. 
Could  it  be  a  ghost  invidious, 
Moving  on  with  step  insidious, 
Bent  on  helpless  man's  destruction, 
Like  a  vampire  full  of  suction  ? 
Should  I  run  ?  that  was  the  question. 
Perish  such  a  base  suggestion  ! 
No!  because  my  limbs  rheumatic 
Banished  feats  on  land  aquatic. 
Should  I  boldly  face  the  danger, 
And  regard  the  little  stranger? 


50      A  NEW  AND   TRUE   GHOST  STORY. 

Sure,  that  form  is  nothing  human,  — 
Just  a  moonlit  pigmy  woman  ! 

Now  the  figure  ceases  motion, 
Gazing  out  upon  the  ocean. 
What  a  pair  of  eyes  to  look  on ! 
What  an  arm  for  love  to  hook  on  ! 
Oh,  what  golden  ringlets  rippled ! 
Mouth  where  spirits  might  have  tippled, 
And  become  inebriated, 
Kissing  oft,  but  never  sated  ! 
Pearly  hands  just  left  off  waving, 
Pinky  toes  in  foam-beds  laving. 
What  a  ravishing  admixture, 
Gracing  that  infantine  fixture  ! 

What  impelled  me  then  to  snatch  up 

In  my  arms  this   ghostly  catch-up, 

Who  can  tell  ?     I  can't  determine, 

But  I  did,  as  if  't  were  ermine, 

Or  a  bunch  of  pure  white  roses, 

Lilies,  or  any  other  posies. 

Yes,  I  did,  and  then,  good  gracious  ! 

What  happened  then  ?     Don't  be  rapacious  ! 


A  NEW  AND   TRUE   GHOST  STORY.       51 

Five  young  listeners  know  the  sequel, 
To  write  it  out  I  don't  feel  equal. 
But,  if  you  will  take  your  pottage, 
Some  day,  in  our  Gambrel    Cottage, 
I'll  explain  to  lads  and  lasses 
What  the  ghost  was.     It  surpasses, 
Paul  says,  mortal  comprehension, 
And  quite  worthy  your  attention. 


MABEL,  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

FAIREST  of  the  fairest,  rival  of  the  rose, 

That  is  Mabel  of  the  Hills,  as  everybody  knows. 

Do  you  ask  me  near  what  stream  this  sweet  flow 
eret  grows  ? 

That 's  an  ignorant  question,  sir,  as  everybody 
knows. 

Ask  you  what  her  age  is,  reckoned  as  time  goes? 
Just  the  age  of  beauty,  as  everybody  knows. 

Is  she  tall  as  Rosalind,  standing  on  her  toes? 
She  is  just  the  perfect  height,  as  everybody  knows. 

What 's   the   color  of   her  eyes,  when   they  ope  or 

close  ? 
Just  the  color  they  should  be,  as  everybody  knows. 

ts  she  lovelier  dancing,  or  resting  in  repose  ? 
Both  are  radiant  pictures,  as  everybody  knows. 


MABEL,  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE.  53 

Do  her  ships  go  sailing  on  every  wind  that  blows  ? 
She  is  richer  far  than  that,  as  everybody  knows. 

Has  she  scores  of  lovers,  heaps  of  bleeding  beaux  ? 
That   question  's    quite    superfluous,   as    everybody 
knows. 

I  could  tell  you  something,  if  I  only  chose !  — 
But   what 's    the    use    of    telling   what    everybody 
knows? 


DON. 

THIS  is  Don,  the  dog  of  all  dogs, 
Just  as  lions  outrank  small  frogs, 
Just  as  eagles  are  superior 
To  buzzards  and  that  tribe  inferior. 

He  's  a  shepherd  lad,  —  a  beauty,  — 
And  to  praise  him  seems  a  duty, 
But  it  puts  my  pen  to  shame,  sir, 
When  his  virtues  I  would  name,  sir. 

"  Don  !  come  here  and  bend  your  head  now, 
Let  us  see  your  best  well-bred  bow  ! " 
Was  there  ever  such  a  creature  ? 
Common-sense  in  every  feature ! 

"  Don  !  rise  up  and  look  around  you  !  " 
Blessings  on  the  day  we  found  you. 

Sell  him  !  well,  upon  my  word,  sir, 
That 's  a  notion  too  absurd,  sir. 


DON. 

Would  I  sell  our  little  Ally, 
Barter  Tom,  dispose  of  Sally, 
Think  you  I'd  negotiate 
For  my  wife  at  any  rate? 

Sell  OUT  Don!  you're  surely  joking. 
And  't  is  fun  at  us  you  're  poking ! 
Twenty  voyages  we  've  tried,  sir, 
Sleeping,  waking,  side  by  side,  sir, 
And  Don  and  I  will  not  divide,  sir; 
He  's  my  friend,  that 's  why  I  love  him, 
And  no  mortal  dog  's  above  him  ! 

He  prefers  a  life  aquatic, 
But  never  dog  was  less  dogmatic. 
Years  ago,  when  I  was  master 
Of  a  tight  brig  called  the  Castor, 
Don  and  I  were  bound  for  Cadiz, 
With  the  loveliest  of  ladies 
And  her  boy — a  stalwart,  hearty, 
Crowing,  one-year  infant  party, 
Full  of  childhood's  myriad  graces, 
Bubbling  sunshine  in  our  faces 


56  DON. 

As  we  bowled  along  so  steady, 
Half-way  home,  or  more,  already. 

How  the  sailors  loved  our  darling ! 
No  more  swearing,  no  more  snarling ; 
On  their  backs,  when  not  on  duty, 
Round  they  bore  the  blue-eyed  beauty, 
Singing,  shouting,  leaping,  prancing,  — 
All  the  crew  took  turns  in  dancing  ; 
Every  tar  played  Punchinello 
With  the  pretty,  laughing  fellow ; 
Even  the  second  mate  gave  sly  winks 
At  the  noisy  mid-day  high  jinks. 
Never  was  a  crew  so  happy 
With  a  curly-headed  chappy, 
Never  were  such  sports  gigantic, 
Never  dog  with  joy  more  antic. 

While  thus  jolly,  all  together, 
There  blew  up  a  change  of  weather, 
Nothing  stormy,  but  quite  breezy, 
And  the  wind  grew  damp  and  wheezy, 
Like  a  gale  in  too  low  spirits 
To  put  forth  one  half  its  merits. 


DON.  57 

But,  perchance,  a  dry-land  ranger 
Might  suspect  some  kind  of  danger. 

Soon  our  staunch  and  gallant  vessel 
With  the  waves  began  to  wrestle, 
And  to  jump  about  a  trifle, 
Sometimes  kicking  like  a  rifle 
When  'tis  slightly  overloaded, 
But  by  no  means  nigh  exploded. 

*T  was  the  coming  on  of  twilight, 
As  we  stood  abaft  the  skylight, 
Scampering  round  to  please  the  baby 
(Old  Bill  Benson  held  him,  maybe), 
When  the  youngster  stretched  his  fingers 
Towards  the  spot  where  sunset  lingers, 
And  with  strong  and  sudden  motion 
Leaped  into  the  weltering  ocean  ! 

"  What  did  Don  do  ?  "     Can't  you  guess,  sir  ? 

He  sprang  also,  —  by  express,  —  sir  ; 

Seized  the  infant's  little  dress,  sir, 
.    Held  the  baby's  head  up  boldly 

From  the  waves  that  rushed  so  coldly ; 


58  DON. 

And  in  just  about  a  minute 

Our  boat  had  them  safe  within  it. 

Sell  him  !     Would  you  sell  your  brother  ? 
Don  and  I  love  one  another ! 


THE  SEARCH. 

"  GIVE  me  the  girl  whose  lips  disclose, 
Whene'er  she  speaks,  rare  pearls  in  rows, 
And  yet  whose  words  more  genuine  are 
Than  pearls  or  any  shining  star. 

"  Give  me  those  silvery  tones  that  seem 
An  angel's  singing  in  a  dream, — 
A  presence  beautiful  to  view, 
A  seraph's,  yet  a  woman's  too. 

"  Give  me  that  one  whose  temperate  mind 
Is  always  toward  the  good  inclined, 
Whose  deeds  spring  from  her  soul  unsought, 
Twin-born  of  grace  and  artless  thought; 

"  Give  me  that  spirit,  —  seek  for  her 
To  be  my  constant  minister  ! " 
Dear  friend,  —  I  heed  your  earnest  prayers,  - 
I  '11  call  your  lovely  wife  down-stairs. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR  OF  «  RAB 
AND  HIS  FRIENDS." 

HERE  's  a  face  with  many  a  furrow, — 

John  Brown's,  of  Edinboro' : 

Doctor  John  his  cronies  call  him. 

Oh,  let  nothing  ill  befall  him, 

Nothing  cross  his  open  door 

But  what  bounteous  fortunes  pour ! 

Come !  a  health  to  that  John  Brown 

Who,  in  Edinboro'  town, 

Practises  for  everybody, 

Pay  or  no  pay.     There  's  no  shoddy 

In  his  sterling-fine  condition, 

He  is  such  "  a  good  physician." 

Give  another  stalwart  health 

To  him  who  does  grand  things  by  stealth. 

Him  you  '11  never  find  a-sleeping 

When  there  's  Want  or  Sorrow  weeping: 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  DR.  JOHN  BRO  WN.      61 

When  there  's  "  something  to  be  done," 
Straight  to  Rutland  Street  folks  run. 

Here  's  a  forehead  without  frown, 
Signed  and  countersigned  John  Brown. 
What  a  brain !  itself  's  a  bumper : 
Did  you  ever  see  a  plumper, — 
One  more  full  of  strength  and  kindness, 
One  for  faults  more  prone  to  blindness  ; 
Written  so  with  love  all  over, 
Like  a  hillock  thick  with  clover, — 
Like  that  dome,  when  Christmas  comes, 
Stuffed  with  everlasting  plums? 

Here  's  John  Brown  engraved  before  ye  : 
Here  's  a  head  that  tells  a  story ! 
Spectacles  on  nose,  —  d'  ye  mind  'em  ?  — 
And  a  pair  of  eyes  behind  'em 
Throw  such  light  on  this  old  planet, 
All  your  Tyndalls  could  not  span  it. 

Come !  a  rouse  to  Doctor  John, 
Including  Jock,  his  brawny  son  ; 
Including  every  dog  he  owns, 


62       ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  DR.  JOHN  BRO  WN. 

And  dear  old  Eab,  —  Heaven  keep  his  bones  1 
For,  when  the  Doctor's  sight  grows  dark, 
That  dog  will  give  a  kindly  bark, 
And  lift  his  head  once  more  to  feel 
A  friendly  arm  around  him  steal, 
And  though  in  ghost-land,  far  away, 
Where  dogs  (who  knows  ?)  are  all  at  play, 
Will  start  to  hear  his  Scottish  name, 
And  lick  the  hand  that  gave  him  fame. 


BALLAD   OF  THE   TEMPEST. 

WE  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep,  — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers,  — 

We  are  lost ! "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 


64  BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Is  not  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer; 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


YOUTH'S  SONG. 

THE  pale  moon-crescent  in  the  azure  slept, 

And  odorous  violets  mingled  with  our  talk  ; 
Anon  the  bells  from  all  the  turrets  swept 

A  flood  of  music  down  the  perfumed  walk, — 
Hurrying  the  golden  hours, — 
The  tremulous,  golden  hours, — 
The  winged,  passionate  hours. 

Then  Time  began  his  joyous  course  to  run, 

Zoning  the  fragrant  earth  with  grace  supreme  ; 
Thenceforth  our  heaven  has  held  a  liberal  sun, 
Freighting  our  voyage   of   love  o'er   life's   clear 

stream,  — 

Leading  the  golden  hours,  — 
The  tremulous,  golden  hours, — 
The  fleeting,  fleeting  hours. 
5 


WITH   WORDSWORTH  AT  RYDAL. 

THE  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks, 
The  golden  day  with  pearls  adorning, 
When  side  by  side  with  him  we  walked 
To  meet  midway  the  summer  morning. 

The  west  wind  took  a  softer  breath, 
The  sun  himself  seemed  brighter  shining, 
As  through  the  porch  the  minstrel  stepped, 
His  eye  sweet  Nature's  look  enshrining. 

He  passed  along  the  dewy  sward, 
The  linnet  sang  aloft,  "  Good  morrow  ! " 
He  plucked  a  bud,  the  flower  awoke 
And  smiled  without  one  pang   of  sorrow. 

He  spoke  of  all  that  graced  the  scene 
In  tones  that  fell  like  music  round  us ; 
We  felt  the  charm  descend,  nor  strove 
To  break  the  rapturous  spell  that  bound  us. 


WITH    WORDSWORTH  AT  RYDAL.        67 

We  listened  with  mysterious  awe, 

Strange  feeling  mingling  with  our  pleasure ; 

We  heard  that  day  prophetic  words,  — 

High  thoughts  the  heart  must  always  treasure. 

Great  Nature's  Priest !    thy  calm  career 
Since  that  sweet  morn  on  earth  has  ended ; 
But  who  shall  say  thy  mission  died 
When,  winged  for  heaven,  thy  soul  ascended  ? 


ON  RECEIVING  A  LOCK   OF  KEATS'S  HAIR. 

DEAR  relic  of  a  bright,  immortal  name, 
Forever  young  and  canopied  by  fame,  — 
I  touch  thy  beauty  with  a  tremulous  thrill. 

Oft  in  the  columned  city,  when  night's  still 
And  starry-vestured  hours  seem  prone  to  weep 
Where  Keats  is  laid  in  moon-enfolded  sleep, 
Among  the  daisies  shrining  his  loved  bones 
Mid     Death's     mosaic,  —  green     turf      and     white 

stones,  — 

I  've  heard  the  song-birds  with  their  music  pass 
Above  their  nested  brother  in  the  grass, 
And  thought  with  joy,   and  tear-suffused  eyes, — 
No  serpent  now  lurks  in  his  Paradise, 
No  venomed  tongue  can  reach  him  with  its  hate,  — 
Wrapped  in  eternal  quiet  with  the  great ! 


ON  A  BOOK   OF  SEA-MOSSES, 

SENT  TO  AN  EMINENT  ENGLISH  POET. 

To  him  who  "sang  of  Venice,  and  revealed 
How  Wealth  and  Glory  clustered  in  her  streets, 
And  poised  her  marble  domes  with  wondrous  skill, 
We  send  these  tributes,  plundered  from  the  sea. 
These  many-colored,  variegated  forms 
Sail  to  our  rougher  shores,  and  rise  and  fall 
To  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 
Such  spoils  we  capture  where  the  rainbows  drop, 
Melting  in  ocean.     Here  are  broideries  strange, 
Wrought  by  the  sea-nymphs  from  their  golden  hair, 
And  wove  by  moonlight.     Gently  turn  the  leaf. 
From  narrow  cells,  scooped  in  the  rocks,  we  take 
These  fairy  textures,  lightly  moored  at  morn. 
Down  sunny  slopes,  outstretching  to  the  deep, 
We  roam  at  nOon,  and  gather  shapes  like  these. 
Note  now  the  painted  webs  from  verdurous  isles, 
Festooned  and  spangled  in  sea-caves,  and  say 
What  hues  of  land  can  rival  tints  like  those, 


70  ON  A  BOOK  OF  SEA-MOSSES. 

Torn  from  the  scarfs  and  gonfalons  of  kings 
Who  dwell  beneath  the  waters. 

Such  our  Gift, 

Culled  from  a  margin  of  the  Western  World, 
And  offered  unto  Genius  in  the  Old. 


AFTER  HEARING  MRS.  KEMBLE  READ  "THE 
TEMPEST." 

THOU  great  Enchantress,  walking  hand  in  hand 
With  him  of  Avon,  nursed  in  Albion's  isle,  — 

Whether  we  meet  thee  on  the  sea-beat  sand, 
Or  gilding  old  Verona  with  thy  smile,  — 

Welcome  !  thou  fit  attendant  on  his  fame, 

Whose  glorious  thoughts  reecho  still  his  name ! 

Illumed  by  thee,  those  deathless  pages  glow 
With  added  lustre  naught  but  Genius  gives  : 

Thou  speak'st !  thy  melting  tones  their  music  throw 
Along  the  lines,  and  lo  !  swift  Ariel  lives, 

And  sings,  and,  darting,  drinks  the  silent  air, 

Then,  fading,  floats  away,  —  we  wist  not  where ! 

Thou  bidd'st  us  forth  where'er  his  fancy  reigns : 
Through    verdurous    Arden    now  we  watch    thee 
roam,  — 

Anon,  thou  cull'st  us  to  the  Roman  plains, 
As  if  those  dusky  haunts  had  been  thy  home. 


72     AFTER  HEARING  MRS.  KEMBLE  READ. 

Where'er  thou  wilt,  thou  lead'st  us,  wondering,  on, 
Bound  to  the  magic  of  thy  beckoning  tone. 

Thou  great  restorer  of  departed  breath! 

Oh,  front    to    front  with    him    couldst    thou    but 

stand, 
His  spirit,  wafted  from  the  halls  of  Death 

Back  to  its  old  domain,  thy  native  land, — 
How  would  our  hearts  with  warmest  rapture  stir, 
To  hear  that  voice  applaud  his  sweet  Interpreter. 


ON  A  VILLAGE   CHURCH  IN  ENGLAND. 

THE  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  and  the  West 
Kobes  in  its  evening  splendor  earth  and  sky. 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  here  find  repose.     This  spot, 
In  rustic  beauty  clad,  wooes  thee  to  rest. 
The  tongue  of  Time  calls  from  the  gray  old  tower, 
And  every  leaf  is  whispering   Calm  and  Peace. 
Dear,  welcome  shrine !    haunt  of    the  good,  fare 
well ! 

Oft  in  my  distant  home,  at  twilight  hour, 
Alone  and  still,  shall  I  recall  this  scene,  — 
The  ivied  porch,  the  steeple  touched  with  light, 
The  hedgerows  green,  oaks  that  the  centuries  crown, 
The  kindly  voices  Friendship  newly  gave, 
The  chime  of  waters  musical  and  low, 
And  songs  of  birds  careering  up  to  heaven. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  CROMWELL. 

"PAINT  me  as  I  am,"  said  Cromwell, 

Rough  with  age  and  gashed  with  wars  ; 

"  Show  my  visage  as  you  find  it,  — 
Less  than  truth  my  soul  abhors." 

This  was  he  whose  mustering  phalanx 
Swept  the  foe  at  Marston  Moor; 

This  was  he  whose  arm  uplifted 
From  the  dust  the  fainting  poor. 

God  had  made  his  face  uncomely,  — 
"  Paint  me  as  I  am,"  he  said ; 

So  he  lives  upon  the  canvas 

Whom  they  chronicled  as  dead! 

Simple  justice  he  requested 

At  the  artist's  glowing  hands, 
"  Simple  justice  !  "  from  his  ashes 
Cries  a  voice  that  still  commands. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  CROMWELL.        75 

And,  behold !  the  page  of  History, 

Centuries  dark  with  Cromwell's  name, 

Shines  to-day  with  burning  lustre 
From  the  light  of  Cromwell's  fame ! 


THE  KING  AND  THE  POET. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN. 

IN  the  old  Cathedral  resting, 
Two  coffins  press  the  stones ; 

One  holds  the  great  King  Ottmar, 
And  one  the  poet's  bones. 

High  in  his  power,  the  monarch 

Ancestral  glories  led ; 
The  sword  lies  in  his  right  hand, 

And  the  crown  upon  his  head. 

The  minstrel  near  the  proud  king 
Is  laid  in  quiet  sleep,  — 

His  lifeless  hands  enfolded, 
His  gentle  harp  to  keep. 

Castles  and  towers  are  falling,  — 
A  war-cry  thrills  the  land,  - — 


THE  KING  AND   THE  POET.  77 

But  the  sword  it  moveth  never 
ID  the  dead  king's  hand. 

Through  valleys,  sweet  with  blossoms, 

Mild  breezes  float  along, 
And  the  poet's  harp  is  sounding 

In  never-dying  song. 


AN  INVITATION. 

THE  warm  wide  hills  are  muffled  thick  with  green, 
And  fluttering  swallows  fill  the  air  with  song. 
Come  to  our  cottage-home.     Lowly  it  stands, 
Set  in  a  vale  of  flowers,  deep  fringed  with  grass. 
The  sweet-brier  (noiseless  herald  of  the  place) 
Flies  with  its  odor,  meeting  all  who  roam 
With  welcome  footsteps  to  our  small  abode. 
No  splendid  cares  live  here,  —  no  barren  shows. 
The  bee  makes  harbor  at  our  perfumed  door, 
And  hums  all  day  his  breezy  note  of  joy. 

Come,  O  my  friend !  and  share  our  festal  month, 
And  while  the  west  wind  walks  the  leafy  woods, 
While  orchard-blooms  are  white  in  all  the  lanes, 
And  brooks  make  music  in  the  deep  cool  dells, 
Enjoy  the  golden  moments  as  they  pass, 
And  gain  new  strength  for  days  that  are  to  come. 


FOR   THE    INAUGURATION    OF    FRANKLIN'S 
STATUE  IN  HIS  NATIVE  CITY. 

GIVE  welcome  to  his  sculptured  form ! 

Art's  splendid  triumph  here  is  won,  — 
Thus  let  him  stand  in  light  and  storm, 

Our  sea-girt  city's  greatest  son. 

His  lineage  sprung  from  honest  toil, 

Swart  Labor  trained  his  youthful  hand ; 

High  with  the  brave  who  freed  our  soil  — 
Where  first  he  breathed  let  FRANKLIN  stand. 

His  genius  stamped  the  Press  with  power ; 

His  glance  the  glowing  future  saw ; 
His  science  curbed  the  fiery  shower ; 

His  wisdom  stood  with  Peace  and  Law. 

The  world  his  story  long  has  shrined,  — 
To  Fame  his  spotless  deeds  belong, — 

His  homely  Truth,  his  ample  Mind, 
His  Saxon  hate  of  human  Wrong. 


80    INAUGURATION  OF  FRANKLIN'S  STATUE 

Room  for  the  gray-haired  patriot-sage ! 

For  here  his  genial  life  began; 
Thus  let  him  look  from  age  to  age, 

And  prompt  new  Thought  ennobling  Man. 


PERDITA. 

A  SWEET-BRIER  grew  at  my  door, 

And  perfumed  the  ground  at  my  feet; 

Was  it  a  rose?  —  it  was  she 

Who  made  all  the  pathway  so  sweet! 

A  bonny  bird  sang  in  the  eaves,  — 
What  music  with  that  can  compare ! 

Was  it  a  bird?  —  it  was  she 

Whose  voice  had  enchanted  the  air! 

Oh  the  brier-rose  drooped  on  its  stalk, 
And  the  bonny  bird  flitted  away, 

But  the  fragrance  and  song  in  my  heart 
For  ever  and  ever  will  stay ! 
6 


"THE   STORMY  PETREL." 

WHERE  the  gray  crags  beat  back  the  northern  main, 

And  all  around,  the  ever-restless  waves, 

Like  white  sea-wolves,  howl  on  the  lonely  sands, 

Clings  a  low  roof,  close  by  the  sounding  surge. 

If,  in  your  summer  rambles  by  the  shore, 

His  spray-tost  cottage  you  may  chance  espy, 

Enter  and  greet  the  blind  old  mariner. 

Full  sixty  winters  he  has  watched  beside 
The  turbulent  ocean,  with  one  purpose  warmed 
To  rescue  drowning  men.     And  round  the  coast  — 
For  so  his  comrades  named  him  in  his  youth  — 
They  know  him  as  "The  Stormy  Petrel"  still. 

Once  he  was  lightning-swift,  and  strong ;  his  eyes 
Peered   through   the  dark,    and    far   discerned   the 

wreck 

Plunged  on  the  reef.    Then  with  bold  speed  he  flew, 
The  life-boat  launched,  and  dared  the  smiting  rocks. 


"  THE  STORMY  PETREL."  83 

Tis  said  by  those  long  dwelling  near  his  door, 
That  hundreds  have  been   storm-saved  by  his  arm; 
That  never  was  he  known  to  sleep,  or  lag 
In-doors,  when  danger  swept  the  seas.     His  life 
Was  given  to  toil,  his  strength  to  perilous  blasts. 
In  freezing  floods  when  tempests  hurled  the   deep, 
And  battling  winds  clashed  in  their  icy  caves, 
Scared   housewives,    waking,    thought   of    him,   and 

said, 

"'The  Stormy  Petrel'  is  abroad  to-night, 
And  watches  from  the  cliffs." 

He  could  not  rest 
When    shipwrecked    forms    might   gasp    amid    the 

waves, 
And  not  a  cry  be  answered  from  the  shore. 

Now  Heaven  has  quenched  his  sight ;  but  when  he 

hears 

By  his  lone  hearth  the  sullen   sea-winds  clang, 
Or  listens,  in  the  mad,  wild,  drowning  night, 
As  younger  footsteps  hurry  o'er   the  beach 
To  pluck  the  sailor  from  his  sharp-fanged  death, — 
The  old  man  starts,  with  generous  impulse  thrilled, 
And,  with  the  natural  habit  of  his  heart, 


84  «  THE  STORMY  PETREL." 

Calls  to  his  neighbors  in  a  cheery  tone, 
Tells  them  he'll  pilot  toward  the  signal  guns, 
And  then,  remembering  all  his  weight  of  years, 
Sinks  on  his  couch,  and  weeps  that  he  is  blind. 


MOONRISE  AT  SEA. 

A   CHILD   SPEAKS. 

COME  up !  the  moon  is  rising  fast, 
The  sea  is  calm,  the  deck  is  clear : 
Come,  mother,  stay  no  longer  here, 

The  moonlight  will  not  always  last. 

Do  you  remember  once  you  talked 
With  me  of  Christ  upon  the  sea? 
Now  hearken,  for  this  seems  to  me 

The  shining  path  where  Jesus  walked ! 

And  when  the  silvery  brightness  came 
Along  the  sparkling  waves  to-night, 
My  heart  leaped  trembling  at  the  sight, 

And  then  I  spoke  our  Saviour's  name. 

I  should  not  fear  His  holy  will, 

If  now  He  stood  in  yon  bright  place, 
And  I  could  see  His  blessed  face, 

And  hear  Him  whisper,  "Peace,  be  still P 


SPRING,   AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

SIT  and  talk  with  the  mountain  streams 
In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year, 

When  the  violet  gleams  through   the   golden   sun 
beams, 

And  whispers,  "  Come  look  for  me  here  "  — 
In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year. 

I  will  show  you  an  odorous  nook 

Where  the  censers  of  morning  are  swung; 

Nature  will  lend  you  her  bell  and  her  book 
Where  the  chimes  of  the  forest  are  hung  — 
And  the  censers  of  morning  are  swung. 

Come  and  breathe  in  this  heaven-sent  air 
The  breeze  that  the  wild-bird  inhales, 

Come  and  forget  that  life  has  a  care, 
In  these  exquisite  mountain-gales  — 
The  breeze  that  the  wild-bird  inhales. 


SPRING,  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  87 

0  wonders  of  God!  —  O  Bounteous  and  Good  — 
We  feel  that  thy  presence  is  here,  — 

That  thine  audible  voice  is  abroad  in  this  wood 
In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year,  — 
And  we  know  that  our  father  is  here. 


THE  MEMORY  OF  MOORE. 

MAY  28,  1879. 

PLEDGE  now  to  the  Minstrel  whose  undying  num 
bers 

Still  set  the  heart  bounding  wherever  they  rise, — 
The  laurel-crowned  Singer,  whose  fame  never  slum 
bers  ^ 
Or  wanders  unknown  beneath  alien  skies. 

Can  we  ever  forget  them,  the  notes  so  enchanting 
That    stole    on    our    senses    with    youth's    fairy 

chimes,  — 

Those    magical   sounds    all   our  after  years    haunt 
ing, 
That  echo  like  watchwords  from  happier  climes  ? 

Who   taught   us   that  Music   and    Song  were   both 

given 
To  kindle  the  soul  to  Love,  Valor,  and  Joy  ? 


THE  MEMORY  OF  MOORE.  89 

Whose    melodies    charmed   us    like    strains    out   of 

Heaven, 

When   a   mother's  dear  voice   Bang  them  first  to 
her  boy  ? 

Who  taught  us  to  welcome  that  swelling  emotion 
Which  soldiers  and  martyrs  and  patriots  feel,  — 

That  wave  which   rolls  on   like   the  floods  of   the 

ocean 
When  despots  are  forging  their  fetters  of  steel  ? 

Who    taught  us  that  chains  for  the    mind  are  un 
holy,  — 
That  Speech  should  be  safe  as  wild  birds  on  the 

wing? 

Who  strove  to  uplift  from  their  bondage  the  lowly, 
And  ope  the  dumb  lips  that  were  longing  to  sing  ? 

Let  Freedom  unroll  her  bright  flag !  for  beneath  it, 
Proudly  smiling,  she    points  to  her  bard's   cher 
ished  name. 
Oh  garland  his  tomb  !    Let  the  Shamrock  enwreathe 

it, 
And  Erin  forever  exult  in  his  fame ! 


MIDNIGHT  SONG  BY  THE   SHORE. 

I. 

ALONE  among  the  rocks  I  stand 
And  watch  the  flaming  path  expand 
From  far  horizon  to  the  strand,  — 

And  ask  this  question  o'er  and  o'er :  — 

II. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  Moon  that  mocks  the  night 
With  such  effulgence  of  delight 
Along  the  ocean  in  thy  flight,  — 

When  will  thy  myriad  wanderings  cease?" 

in. 

In  vain !  there  comes  no  answering  cry 
From  the  illumined  midnight  sky,  — 
Only  the  deep  calm  waves  reply, 

"  Pilgrim  of  earth !  be  dumb  and  wait !  " 


ON  A  PAIR  OF   ANTLERS, 

BROUGHT   FROM   GERMANY. 

GIFT  from  the  land  of  song  and  wine,  — 
Can  I  forget  the  enchanted  day, 

When  first  along  the  glorious  Rhine 
I  heard  the  huntsman's  bugle  play, 

And  marked  the  early  star  that  dwells 

Among  the  cliffs  of  Drachenfels ! 

Again  the  isles  of  beauty  rise, — 
Again  the  crumbling  tower  appears, 

That  stands,  defying  stormy  skies, 
With  memories  of  a  thousand  years, 

And  dark  old  forests  wave  again, 

And  shadows  crowd  the  dusky  plain. 

They  brought  the  gift  that  I  might  hear 
The  music  of  the  roaring  pine,  — 

To  fill  again  my  charmed  ear 

With  echoes  of  the  Rodenstein, — 


92  ON  A  PAIR   OF  ANTLERS. 

"With  echoes  of  the  silver  horn, — 
Across  the  wailing  waters  borne. 

Trophies  of  spoil !   henceforth  your  place 
Is  in  this  quiet  home  of  mine; 

Farewell  the  busy,  bloody  chase, 

Mute  emblems  now  of  "auld  lang  syne," 

When  Youth  and  Hope  went  hand  in  hand 

To  roam  the  dear  old  German  land. 


LAST  WORDS  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND. 

OH,   to  be  home  again,  home  again,  home  again, 
Under  the  apple-boughs,  down  by  the  mill,  — 
Mother  is  calling  me,  father  is  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  be  wandering,  wandering 
Through  the  green  meadows  and  over  the  hill,  — 
Sisters  are  calling  me,  brothers  are  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  once  more  to  be  home  again,  home  again, 
Dark  grows  my  sight  and  the  evening  is  chill,  — 
Do  you  not  hear  how  the  voices  are  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still  ? 


THE  SONG-QUEEN. 

LOOK  on  her !  there  she  stands,  the  world's  prime 

wonder, 

The  great  Queen  of  Song !     Ye  rapt  musicians, 
Touch  your  golden  wires,  for  now  ye  prelude  strains 
To  mortal  ears  unwonted.     Hark  !  she  sings. 
Yon  pearly  gates  their  magic  waves  unloose, 
And  all  the  liberal  air  rains  melody 
Around.     0  night !    O  time  !  delay,  delay  ! 
Pause    here,   entranced.      Ye    evening  winds,  come 

near, 

But  whisper  not ;  and  you,  ye  flowers,  fresh  culled 
From  odorous  nooks,  where  silvery  rivulets  run, 
Breathe  silent  incense  still. 

Hail,  matchless  Queen  ! 

Thou,   like   the   high   white   Alps,    canst   hear,  un 
spoiled, 

The  world's  artillery  (thundering  praises)  pass, 
And  keep  serene  and  safe  thy  spotless  fame ! 


THE  ALPINE  CROSS. 

BENIGHTED  once  where  Alpine  storms 
Have  buried  hosts  of  martial  forms, 
Halting  with  fear,  benumbed  with  cold, 
While  swift  the  avalanches  rolled, 
Shouted  our  guide,  with  quivering  breath, 
"  The  path  is  lost !  —  to  move  is  death  !  " 

The  savage  snow-cliflfs  seemed  to  frown, 
The  howlin"1  winds  came  fiercer  down  : 

O 

Shrouded  in  such  a  dismal  scene, 
No  mortal  aid  whereon  to  lean, 
Think  you  what  music  't  was  to  hear, 
"  I  see  the   Cross  !  —  our  way  is  clear  !  " 

We  looked,  and  there  amid  the  snows, 
A  simple  cross  of  wood  uprose  ; 
Firm  in  the  tempest's  awful  wrath 
It  stood,  to  guide  the  traveller's  path, 
And  point  to  where  the  valley  lies, 
Serene  beneath  the  summer  skies. 


96  THE  ALPINE   CROSS. 

One  dear  companion  of  that  night 
Has  passed  away  from  mortal  sight ; 
He  reached  his  home  to  droop  and  fade, 
And  sleep  within  his  native  glade; 
But  as  his  fluttering  hand  I  took, 
Before  he  gave  his  farewell  look, 
He  whispered  from  his  bed  of  pain, 
"  The  Alpine   Cross  I  see  again  1 " 
Then,  smiling,  sank  to  endless  -rest 
Upon  his  weeping  mother's  breast! 


CANZONET. 

(TO    A    VENETIAN   AIR.) 

CLARIAN,  beautiful  and  young, — 
Poet's  lyre  was  never  strung, 
Burning  lips  have  never  sung 

To  a  sweeter,  dearer  theme  : 
What  can  such  as  I  bring  you, 
Maiden,  beautiful  and  true  ?  — 

Only  music  in  a  dream ! 

Is  it  music  that  I  bring 

From  a  worn  and  loosened  string,  - 

(Once  it  sang  like  birds  in  spring 

When  in  upper  air  they  fly  !) 
Clarian,  when  your  loveliness 
Dawns  upon  a  soul  to  bless, 

It  must  sing,  or  it  will  die  ! 
7 


A  POOR  MAN'S  EPITAPH. 

HE  was  not  what  the  world  counts  rich, 
Houses  and  lands  had  none  in  store; 
But  blessed  with  strength  for  honest  toil, 
He  neither  asked  nor  strove  for  more. 

His  neighbors  moved  in  higher  ranks, 
And  far  above  him  all  could  shine  ; 
He  lived  with  Health,  and  brave  Content, 
And  water  drank  instead  of  wine. 

Enough  for  me,"  he  said,  "  if-  here 
My  table  's  spread  when  hunger  calls, 
To  leave  me  something  for  a  friend 
Whose  lot  than  mine  still  lower  falls ; 

And  if  the  rainy  days  should  come, 
And  I've  no  silver  hoarded  by, 
How  can  I  want,  if  Him  I  trust 
Who  feeds  the  ravens  when  they  cry  ? 


A  POOR  MAN'S  EPITAPH.  99 

"  Around  my  board  a  place  I  '11  keep 
For  pallid  lips  that  pine  in  woe, 
And  better  gifts  than  I  impart 
Shall  unseen  angel-hands  bestow!" 

See  where  he  sleeps  who  served  mankind,  — 
Who  wept  and  watched  with  weeping  eyes  ! 
Walk  round  his  grave  with  reverent  steps, 
For  there  a  more  than  hero  lies. 


THE  LOVER'S  PERIL. 

HAVE  I  been  ever  wrecked  at  sea, 

And  nigh  to  being  drowned? 
More  threatening  storms  have  compassed  me 

Than  on  the  deep  are  found ! 

What  coral-reefs  her  dangerous  lips  !  — 

My  bark  was  almost  gone  — 
Hope  plunged  away  in  dim  eclipse, 

And  black  the  night  rolled  on. 

What  seas  are  like  her  whelming  hair, 
That  swept  me  o'er  and  o'er?-— 

I  heard  the  waters  of  despair 

Crash  round  the  frightened  shore ! 

Come,  Death !  "  I  murmured  in  my  cries,  — 
For  signals  none  were  waved, — 

When  both  lighthouses  in  her  eyes 
Shone  forth,  and  I  was  saved ! 


VESPERS. 

TRINITA   DE'    MONTI,    ROME. 

ARISE  !  the  sun-clouds  warn  us  it  is  time. 

The  door  swings  open,  let  us  enter  here 
Up  the  steep  steps  with  noiseless  foot  we  climb, 

As  if  they  led  to  some  celestial  sphere. 

Listen  !  the  nuns  are  gliding  in  unseen ; 

And  now  begins  the  low,  heart-melting  strain. 
Your  tears  are  falling,  —  let  them  fall,  —  nor  screen 

From    me   your   eyes  ;   I    know  that   sad,  sweet 
pain. 

Again  that  solemn  penitential  wail ! 

Your  clasped  hands    tremble  ;  —  now  the  voices 

die. 
Let  us  go  hence ;    your  quivering  lips  turn  pale ; 

Hushed  is  the  hymn  so  like  an  angel's  sigh. 


102  VESPERS. 

The  day  is  fled  ;  these  walls  are  not  our  home ; 

Forth  in  the  breeze  of  evening  let  us  stand. 
Come !  lean  on  me  as  we  descend  to  Rome, 

From  what  has  seemed  the  angels'  spirit-land ! 


FIRESIDE  EVENING-HYMN. 

HITHER,  bright  angels,  wing  your  flight, 
And  stay  your  gentle  presence  here ; 
Watch  round,  and  shield  us  through  the  night, 
That  every  shade  may  disappear. 

How  sweet,  when  Nature  claims  repose, 
And  darkness  floats  in  silence  nigh, 
To  welcome  in,  at  daylight's  close, 

Those  radiant  troops  that  gem  the  sky ! 

To  feel  that  unseen  hands  we  clasp, 
While  feet  unheard  are  gathering  round,  — 
To  know  that  we  in  faith  may  grasp 
Celestial  guards  from  heavenly  ground ! 

Oh,  ever  thus,  with  silent  prayer 
For  those  we  love,  may  night  begin, — 
Reposing  safe,  released  from  care, 
Till  morning  leads  the  sunlight  in. 


HONORIA. 

WRITE  this  in  sunbeams  on  Honoria's  tomb, 
And  be  her  dust  forever  consecrate :  — 

"  Daughter  of  Helpfulness,  she  ever  strove 

By  numerous  acts  of  secret  charity 

And  words  of  cheerful  import  to  incline 

All  suffering  souls  to  lean  on  heavenly  things. 

Her  gifts  were  lowly,  but  her  heart  outran 

Her  gifts.     She  had  no  vaunt  of  self,  no  pride 

In  deeds  conspicuous,  no  ambitious  flights 

To  achieve  in  place,  or  wealth,  or  praise.     She  lived 

That  others  might  be  happy,  and  deserve 

The  happiness  they  gained.     Benevolence 

With  her  went  hand  in  hand  with  Wisdom ; 

Never  Want  turned  hopeless  from  her  door, 

But  inwardly  resolved  henceforth  to  struggle 

Into  higher  aims." 

Hark,  how  the  blithe  birds 


HONORIA.  105 

Chant  about  her  grave !     No  requiem  fitter 
To  embalm  in  song  the  harmonious  beauty 
Of  a  gentle  life  sacred  to  Helpfulness 
And  Human  Love 


RELICS 

You  ask  me  why  with  such  a  jealous  care 

I  hoard  these  rings,  this  chain  of  silken  hair, 

This  cross  of  pearl,  this  simple  key  of  gold, 

And  all  these  trifles  which  my  hands  enfold. 

I  '11  tell  you,  friend,  why  all  these  things  become 

My  blest  companions  when  remote  from  home  ; 

Why,  when  I  sleep,  these  first  secured  I  see, 

With  wakeful  eye  and  guarded  constancy. 

Each  little  token,  each  familiar  toy, 

My  mother  gave  her  once  too  happy  boy ; 

Her  kiss  went  with  them.     Chide  me,  then,  no  more, 

That  thus  I  count  my  treasures  o'er  and  o'er. 

Alas !   she  sleeps  beneath  the  dust  of  years, 

And  these  few  flowers  I  water  with  my  tears ! 


A   SOLDIER'S   ANCESTRY. 

WHEN  Nadir  sought  a  princess  for  his  son, 
And  Delhi's  throne  required  his  pedigree, 

He  stared  upon  the  messenger  as  one 

Who  should  have  known  his  birth  of  bravery 

"  Go  back,"  he  cried,  in  undissembled  scorn, 

"  And  bear  this  answer  to  your  waiting  lord  : 

*  My  child  is  noble  !    for,  though  lowly  born, 
He  is  the  son  and  grandson  of  the  Sword ! ' ! 


AGASSIZ. 

ONCE  in  the  leafy  prime  of  Spring, 

When  blossoms  whitened  every  thorn, 
I  wandered  through  the  Vale  of  Orbe 
Where  Agassiz  was  born. 

The  birds  in  boyhood  he  had  known 

Went  flitting  through  the  air  of  May, 
And  happy  songs  he  loved  to  hear 
Made  all  the  landscape  gay. 

I  saw  the  streamlet  from  the  hills 

Run  laughing  through  the  valleys  green, 
And,  as  I  watched  it  run,  I  said, 

"  This  his  dear  eyes  have  seen ! " 

Far  cliffs  of  ice  his  feet  have  climbed 

That  day  outspoke  of  him  to  me ; 
The  avalanches  seemed  to  sound 
The  name  of  Agassiz! 


AGASSIZ.  109 

And,  standing  on  the  mountain  crag 

Where  loosened  waters  rush  and  foam, 
I  felt  that,  though  on  Cambridge  side, 
He  made  that  spot  my  home. 

And,  looking  round  me  as  I  mused, 
I  knew  no  pang  of  fear,  or  care, 
Or  homesick  weariness,  because 
Once  Agassiz  stood  there! 

I  walked  beneath  no  alien  skies, 

No  foreign  heights  I  came  to  tread, 
For  everywhere  I  looked,  I  saw 
His  grand,  beloved  head. 

His  smile  was  stamped  on  every  tree, 
The  glacier  shone  to  gild  his  name, 
And  every  image  in  the  lake 
Reflected  back  his  fame. 

Great  keeper  of  the  magic  keys 

That  could  unlock  the  guarded  gates 
Where  Science  like  a  Monarch  stands, 
And  sacred  Knowledge  waits, — 


AGASSIZ. 

Thine  ashes  rest  on  Auburn's  banks, 

Thy  memory  all  the  world  contains, 
For  thou  couldst  bind  in  human  love 
All  hearts  in  golden  chains ! 

Thine  was  the  heaven-born  spell  that  sets 

Our  warm  and  deep  affections  free, — 
Who  knew  thee  best  must  love  thee  best, 
And  longest  mourn  for  thee ! 


COMMON   SENSE. 

SHE  came  among  the  gathering  crowd, 
A  maiden  fair,  without  pretence, 
And  when  they  asked  her  humble  name, 
She  whispered  mildly,  "  Common  Sense." 

Her  modest  garb  drew  every  eye, 
Her  ample  cloak,  her  shoes  of  leather ; 
And,  when  they  sneered,  she  simply  said, 
"I  dress  according  to  the  weather." 

They  argued  long,  and  reasoned  loud, 
In  dubious  Hindoo  phrase  mysterious, 
While  she,  poor  child,  could  not  divine 
Why  girls  so  young  should  be  so  serious. 

They  knew  the  length  of  Plato's   beard, 
And  how  the  scholars  wrote  in  Saturn  ; 
She  studied  authors  not  so  deep, 
And  took  the  Bible  for  her  pattern. 


112  COMMON  SENSE. 

And  so  she  said,  "Excuse  me,  friends, 
I  find  all  have  their  proper  places, 
And   Common  Sense  should  stay  at  home 
With  cheetful  hearts  and  smiling  faces." 


COURTESY. 

Bow  sweet  and  gracious,  even  in  common  speech, 
Is  that  fine  sense  which  men  call  Courtesy ! 
Wholesome  as  air  and  genial  as  the  light, 
Welcome  in  every  clime  as  breath  of  flowers,  — 
Ft  transmutes  aliens  into  trusting   friends, 
And  gives  its  owner  passport  round  the  globe. 

8 


TO  T.    S.  K. 

Go,  with  a  manly  heart, 

Where  courage  leads  the  brave  ; 

High  thoughts,  not  years,  have  stamped  their  part, 

Who  shunned  the  coward's  grave. 

Clear,  to  the  eye  of  youth, 
Their  record  stands  enrolled, 
Who  held  aloft  the  flag  of  Truth, 
Nor  slept  beneath  its  fold. 

They  heard  the  trumpet  sound 

Where  hosts  to  battle  trod, 

And  marched  along  that  burning  ground  : 

Fear  not !  they  rest  with  God. 

Like  them,  advance  in  love, 

And  upward  bend  thy  sight  ; 

Win  Faith  through  prayer:  He  rules  above 

Who  still  protects  the  right, 


DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

UNDERNEATH  the  sod,  low  lying, 

Dark  and  drear,  « 

Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 
Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they  're  ever  bending  o'er  her, 

Eyes  that  weep : 
Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and   fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 

Chaplets  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 

Throned  above  ; 
Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit 

Life  and  love ! 


PINKS. 

(A   MODEST   REQUEST.) 

You  ask  me  what  flower  I  prefer, 
And  it  takes  but  a  moment  to  think, 

For  its  perfume  is  like  nothing  else, 
And  the  name  of  that  same  is  a  pink,  • 
A  red  pink. 

When  you  bid  me  to  dine  or  to  sup, 
Or  invite  me  to  breakfast  or  lunch, 

Put  a  knot  of  them  under  my  nose, 
And  hand  me,  when  leaving,  the  bunch, 
The  whole  bunch ! 


A  SUMMER  RETREAT. 

I  KNOW  a  cottage  by  the  sounding  main 

Where  Life  and  Happiness  together  dwell. 

The  village  bells  behind,  in  front  the  surging  waves 

Commingle  notes  that  lull  the  soul  to  rest. 

Circling  round,  the  green  old  forests  populous 

With  birds  join  the  great  anthem,  both  at  morn 

And  eve.     High  on  an  ancient  crag,  the  roof 

Looks  heavenward,  asking  only  quiet  days 

And  thoughts  serene  for  those  who  nestle  there. 

Descend  into  the  summer  vale  below 

Perfumed  with  orchards  and  the  breath  of  ferns, 

Rustling  with  squirrels,  —  blithe  inhabitants 

That  unmolested  roam,  and  run  at  random 

Where   they  list,  like   gamesome  children   up,   and 

down 

The  rocky  pathways,  deep  in  dewy  moss. 
'Tis  a  wild  pleasure  to  be   breathing  there  — 
Far  from  the  turbulent  city,  clanging  loud 
With  care,  its  burning  pavement  scorching 


118  A  SUMMER  RETREAT. 

Weary  feet,  its  blistering  dome  on  fire ;  — 

To  watch  the  clouds  that  cool  yon  sandy  shores  ; 

To  see  the  day,  slow  mounting,  light  the  world  ; 

To  hear,  sea-fanned  at  noon,  the  sweet  south-wind 

In  music  blowing  from  the  fragrant  deep  ; 

To  hail  the  moon  emerging  from  her  caves, 

And  track  her  starry  followers  up  the  skies. 

O  Universal  Father !  mould  our  hearts 
In  harmony  with  all  these  sinless  shapes, 
These  sounds,  so  vocal  of  thyself,  eternal 
Witnesses  of  Power  and  all-embracing  Love. 


A   BRIDAL  MELODY. 

SHE    stood,    like    an    angel    just    wandered    from 

heaven, 

A  pilgrim  benighted  away  from  the  skies, 
And  little  we  deemed  that  to  mortals  were  given 
Such  visions  of  beauty  as  came  from  her  eyes. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  on  the  many  glad  faces. 
The  friends    of    her   childhood,  who    stood    by  her 

side  ; 
But  she  shone  o'er   them   all,  like  a  queen  of   the 

Graces, 
When,  blushing,  she  whispered  the  vow  of  a  bride. 

We  sang  an  old  song,  as  with  garlands  we  crowned 
her, 

And  each  left  a  kiss  on  her  delicate  brow  ; 

And  we  prayed  that  a  blessing  might  ever  sur 
round  her, 

And  the  future  of  life  be  unclouded  as  now. 


PRESENCE. 

A    SONG    OF    SUMMER. 

ONCE  she  walked  through  our  valley,  — 
Since  then  it  has  blossomed  more  sweet ; 

You  can  tell  now  the  fragrant  wood-paths 
So  gladdened  that  day  by  her  feet. 

The  eglantine  nodded  a  welcome, 

And  the  bayberry  lifted  its  head  ; 
"  She  is  passing  this  way"  breathed  the  fern-grove ; 
"  She  is  here ! "  all  the  white  birches  said. 

Go  and  rest  under  the  oak-boughs, 

Or  wander  beneath  the  tall  pine, 
And  you  '11  still  hear  the  tones  so  like  music 

Of  this  sunny-haired  neighbor  of  mine. 

Last  night  as  I  came  by  the  beech-trees 

They  called  to  me  out  of  the  rain, 
"  Where  lingers  the  lily  of  maidens, 

And  when  shall  we  greet  her  again  ?  " 


MONMOUTH. 

REACH   a   hand    out    to   Monmouth,  and  not  pass 

him  by 

With  a  stare  of  contempt  and  a  pitiless  eye. 
lie  is  poor,  he  is  sad,  and  a  drunkard,  I  fear, — 
Reach  a  hand  out  to  Monmouth,  give  Monmouth  a 

tear! 

Ah,  God !  what  a  ravage  of  sin  and  decay ! 
What  a  wreck  of  the  youth  once  so  genial  and  gay  ! 
So  witty  at  college,  so  full  of  brave  cheer !  — 
Reach  a  hand  out  to  Monmouth,  give  Monmouth  a 
tear! 

How  proudly  we  marshalled  ourselves  in  his  name, 
When  the  country  demanded  his  gifts  for  her  fame ! 
How  his  voice  in  the  Senate  rang  lofty  and  clear!  — 
Reach  a  hand  out  to  Monmouth,  give  Monmouth  a 
tear ! 


122  MONMOUTH. 

A  vassal  to  Pleasure,  of  Error  the  slave, 
O'ermastered  by  passions  that  drag  to  the  grave, 
We  have  watched  him  sink  deeper  and  faster  each 

year,  — 
Reach  a  hand  out  to  Monmouth,  give  Monmouth  a 

tear! 

Too  late  to  restore  him  ?  —  't  is  never  too  late 
To  strive  for  a  soul  drifting  down  to  its  fate. 
His  heart  is  not  dead ;  bring  him  back  from  the 

rear,  — 
Reach  a  hand  out  to  Monmouth,  give  Monmouth  a 

tear! 

Let  us  rally  around  him,  and  never  despise 
A  brother  in  ruins,  but  help  him  to  rise. 
If  we  win,  what  a  rapture  will  be  our  reward! 
For  Monmouth  again  of  himself  will  be  lord. 


A  PROTEST. 

Go,  sophist!   dare  not  to  despoil 
My  life  of  what  it  sorely  needs 

In  days  of  pain,  in  hours  of  toil,  — 
The  bread  on  which  my  spirit  feeds. 

You  see  no  light  beyond  the  stars, 
No  hope  of  lasting  joys  to  come? 

I  feel,  thank  God,  no  narrow  bars 
Between  me  and  my  final  home! 

Hence  with  your  cold  sepulchral  bans,  — 
The  vassal  doubts  Unfaith  has  given! 

My  childhood's  heart  within  the  man's 
Still  whispers  to  me,  "Trust  in  Heaven!" 


EVENTIDE  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

THIS  cottage  door,  this  gentle  gale, 
Hay-scented,  whispering  round, 
Yon  path-side  rose,  that  down  the  vale 
Breathes  incense  from  the  ground, 

Methinks  should  from  the  dullest  clod 
Invite  a  thankful  heart  to  God. 

But,  Lord,  the  violet,  bending  low, 

Seems  better  moved  to  praise  ; 

From  us  what  scanty  blessings  flow, 

How  voiceless  close  our  days  ! 

Father,  forgive  us,  and  the  flowers 
Shall  lead  in  prayer  the  vesper  hours. 


A   CHARACTER. 

0  HAPPIEST  he,  whose  riper  years  retain 

The  hopes  of  youth,  unsullied  by  a  stain ! 

His  eve  of  life  in  calm  content  shall  glide, 

Like  the  still  streamlet  to  the  ocean  tide : 

No  gloomy  cloud  hangs  o'er  his  tranquil  day  ; 

No  meteor  lures  him  from  his  home  astray ; 

For  him  there  glows  with  glittering  beam  on  high 

Love's  changeless  star  that  leads  him  to  the  sky; 

Still  to  the  past  he  sometimes  turns  to  trace 

The  mild  expression  of  a  mother's  face, 

And  dreams,  perchance,  as  oft  in  earlier  years, 

The  low,  sweet  music  of  her  voice  he  hears. 


THE  WHITE-THROATED   SPARROW. 

ON   HEARING   HIS    SONG   IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

HARK  !  't  is  our  Northern  nightingale  that  sings 
In  far-off  leafy  cloisters,  high  and  cool, 
Flinging  his  flute-notes  bounding  from  the  skies  ! 

Thou  wild  musician  of  the  mountain  streams, 
Most  tuneful  minstrel  of  the  forest  choir, 
Bird  of  all  grace  and  harmony  of  soul, 
Unseen  we  hail  thee  for  thy  blissful  voice. 

Up  in  yon  tremulous  mist  where  morning  wakes 
Unnumbered  shadows  from  their  dark  abodes, 
Or  in  the  woodland  glade  tumultuous  grown, 
With  all  the  murmurous  language  of  the  trees, 
No  blither  presence  fills  the  vocal  space. 
The  wandering  rivulets  dancing  through  the  grass, 
The  gambols,  low  or  loud,  of  insect  life, 
The  cheerful  call  of  cattle  in  the  vales, 


THE    WHITE-THROATED  SPARROW.    127 

Sweet  natural  sounds  of  the  contented  hours, — 
All  seem  more  jubilant  when  thy  song  begins. 

Deep  in  the  shade  we  lie  and  listen  long ; 
For  human  converse  well  may  pause,  and  man 
Learn  from  such  notes  fresh  hints  of  praise 
That  upward  swelling  from  thy  grateful  tribe 
Circle  the  hills  with  melodies  of  joy. 


A  VALENTINE. 

SHE  that  is  fair,  though  never  vain    or  proud, 
More  fond  of  home  than  fashion's  changing  crowd, 
Whose  taste  refined  even  female  friends  admire, 
Dressed  not  for  show,  but  robed  in  neat  attire ; 
She  who  has  learned,  with  mild,  forgiving  breast, 
To  pardon  frailties,  hidden  or  confest ; 
True  to  herself,  yet  willing  to  submit, 
More  swayed  by  love  than  ruled  by  worldly  wit; 
Though  young,  discreet,  though  ready,  ne'er  unkind, 
Blessed  with  no  pedant's,  but  a    Woman's  mind  ; 
She  wins  our  hearts,  towards  her  our    thoughts  in 
cline, 
So  at  her  door  go  leave   my  Valentine. 


IN   SPRING-TIME, 

EVERY    year    when    young    April,    just    wakened, 
comes  round 

With  her  robins  all  ready  to  sing, 
Let  us  bless  the  dear  God  that  we  still  are  alive 

To  welcome  another  new  Spring; 
That  above,  and  not  under,  the  blossoming  ground 

Our  limbs  are  yet  active  and  strong; 
That  still  we  can  breathe  in  the  sweet  vernal  air, 

And  hear  Nature's  marvellous  song. 

The  brooks,  making  melody  under  the  sky, 

Call  the  blood  of  youth  back  into  age, — 
The  heart  of  the  universe  seems  keeping  time 

To  delights  wherein  all  can  engage. 
The  flower  of  life  and  the  flower  of  love 

Are  everywhere  blooming  to-day ; 
Death  and  darkness  no  longer  stalk  blind   through 
the  world ; 

So  let  us  take  hands,  and  be  gay. 


SUMMER-EVENING  MELODY. 

Go  forth!    the  sky  is  blue  above, 
And  cool  the  green  sod  lies  below; 

It  is  the  hour  that  claims  for  love 
The  halcyon  moments  as  they  flow. 

The  glowworm  lends  her  twinkling  lamp, 
The  cricket  sings  his  soothing  strain, 

And  fainter  sounds  the  weary  tramp 
Of  footsteps  in  the  grassy  lane. 

Go  forth,  ye  pallid  sons  of  care! 

Too  long  your  thoughts  to  earth  are  given  ; 
To-night  sweet  music  haunts  the  air, 

And  fragrant  odors  breathe  of  heaven  ! 


IN  THE  FOREST. 

THROUGH  the  proud  isles  of  old  cathedral  woods 

What  echoing  voices  break  the  solitudes! 

At  matin-hour  go  hear,  on  green  hillside, 

Bells  of  bird-music  ringing  far  and  wide, 

While    mountain    streams    that    burst    their   prison 

crags 
Run    down    the   rocks   and   wave   their  snow-white 

flags. 


THE  PERPETUITY  OF  SONG. 

IT  was  a  blithesome  young  jongleur 
Who  started  out  to  sing, 

Eight  hundred  years  ago,  or  more, 
On  a  leafy  morn  in  spring  ; 

And  he  carolled  sweet  as  any  bird 
That  ever  tried  its  wing. 

Of  love  his  little  heart  was  full,  — 
Madonna  !  how  he  sang  ! 

The  blossoms  trembled  with  delight, 
And  round  about  him  sprang, 

As  forth  among  the  banks  of  Loire 
The  minstrel's  music  rang. 

The  boy  had  left  a  home  of  want 
To  wander  up  and  down, 

And  sing  for  bread  and  nightly  rest 
In  many  an  alien  town, 

And  bear  whatever  lot  befell,  — 
The  alternate  smile  and  frown. 


THE  PERPETUITY  OF  SONG.          133 

The  singer's  carolling  lips  are  dust, 

And  ages  long  since  then 
Dead  kings  have  lain  beside  their  thrones, 

Voiceless  as  common  men,  — 
But  Gerald's  songs  are  echoing  still 

Through  every  mountain  glen  ! 


THE  FLAME-BEARER. 

THERE  's  nought  so  dreary  in  this  world  of  ours 
But  has  some  spark  of  beauty  lingering  near, — 

On  frozen  mountains  bloom  the  constant  flowers, 
And  stars  above  lone  sepulchres  appear. 

O'er  extinct  craters,  brightly  poised,  't  is  said, 
Hovers  a  rare  an$  radiant  humming-bird 

Called  the  flame-bearer  ^  —  all  save  that  is  dead, — 
Yet,  mid  the  gloom,  glad  wings  are  ever  heard. 


IN  EXTREMIS. 
OH,  the  soul  -haunting  shadows  when  low  he  '11  lie 


And  the    dread    angel's  voice   for  his  spirit  is  cry 

ing! 
Where  will  his  thoughts  wander,  just  before  sleep- 

i»gi 

When  a   chill  from   the    dark   o'er  his  forehead   is 
creeping  ? 

Will  he  go  on  beguiling, 
And  wantonly  smiling? 

'T  is  June  with  him  now,  but  quick  cometh  Decem 

ber  ; 
There  's  a  broken  heart  somewhere  for  him  to  re 

member, 

And  sure  as  God  liveth,  for  all  his  gay  trolling, 
The  bell  for  his  passing  one  day  will  be  tolling  ! 
Then  no  more  beguiling, 
False  vowing  and  smiling  ! 


MORNING  AND  EVENING  BY  THE  SEA. 

i. 

AT  dawn  the  fleet  stretched  miles  away 

On  ocean-plains  asleep,  — 
Trim  vessels  waiting  for  the  day 

To  move  across  the  deep. 
So  still  the  sails  they  seemed  to  be 
White  lilies  growing  in  the  sea. 

ii. 

When  evening  touched  the  cape's  low  rim, 

And  dark  fell  on  the  waves, 
We  only  saw  processions  dim 

Of  clouds,  from  shadowy  caves ; 
These  were  the  ghosts  of  buried  ships 
Gone  do\T|n  in  one  brief  hour's  eclipse ! 


THE   OLD   YEAR. 

THE  white  dawn  glimmered,  and  he  said,  "  'T  is 
day ! " 

The  east  was  reddening,  and  he  sighed  "  Fare 
well,"  — 

The  herald  Sun  came  forth,  and  he  was  dead. 

Life  was  in  all  his  veins  but  yestermorn, 

And  ruddy  health  seemed  laughing  on  his  lips; 

Now  he  is  dust,  and  will  not  breathe  again  ! 

Give  him  a  place  to  lay  his  regal  head, 
Give  him  a  tomb  beside  his  brothers  gone, 
Give  him  a  tablet  for  his  deeds  and  name. 

Hear  the  new  voice  that  claims  the  vacant  throne. 
Take  the  new  hand  outstretched  to  meet  thy  kiss. 
But  give  the  Past  —  't  is  all  thou  canst  —  thy  tears ! 


™° «  VSo^r  ™  °"  THE  F°U"H 

OVERDUE.  THE    SEVENTH     DAY 


USt  APft  2  0 1979 

REC.  CIR.    APR  P  0   1S79 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


s  ami      - 

3QS 


402189 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LI&RARY 


